


my fairest wheels are turning

by quibbler



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Night Circus - Erin Morgenstern
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Night Circus, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-16 08:49:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 30,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2263368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quibbler/pseuds/quibbler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jemma Simmons was born special, with an ability for manipulating her surroundings and her own biology. Leo Fitz acquires his talents from books and invented his own way of creating illusions with the help of technology. What happens when two schools of thought are pitted against each other? A competition is set up for two young magicians long before they came into existence to showcase their skills, and before they even meet, their two fates become intricately and inexplicably intertwined. When they finally realise that there are too many other fates at risk, it is too late for them to turn back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. a proposal

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based in the universe set up in The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern, which is a phenomenal book that you should all read. While not having read it isn't going to harm you, it is _highly_ recommended, particularly if you want to avoid spoilers as this story is mostly littered with them. If you don't mind spoilers, read this story and thus develop an urge to read the novel, then I have done far better than I ever could have expected.
> 
> This is a warning that there is going to be mention of violence and self-harm for the sake of learning, so please do not proceed unless you're okay with the aforementioned topics.
> 
> I do not own any of the characters in this fic except for Richard and Beth. Everyone else belongs to Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. and Marvel. The story belongs to Erin Morgenstern, author of The Night Circus. Certain parts of the story are very similar to the original novel, but everything has been paraphrased as needed. The title of this fic is a lyric from the song Grace For Sale from The Devil's Carnival.
> 
> The accompanying fanmix was done by the amazing Andrea ([littlestitchwitch](http://littlestitchwitch.tumblr.com)) and can be found [here](http://littlestitchwitch.tumblr.com/post/96782606621/priestess-magician-for-lovers-with-amazing).

For as long as she can remember, Jemma Simmons has been special.

Special. That is what her mother called it, even when Jemma is expected to keep her abilities a secret. "The world doesn't take kindly to those who are different," her mother once said, even as a woman who performs her illusions for a living, even whilst teaching her how to control the outbursts of her magic. (Magic. Jemma doesn't know if that is the right word for what she can do. Manipulation, perhaps, but magic isn't real.)

She stands in front of her desk, concentrating on the flickering flame of her candle. (Of course, it has to be a candle, old-fashioned as the idea is. Fluorescent lighting just doesn't have the same effect.) It sputters and blows out, and she watches as the last vestiges of smoke float toward her ceiling before a small flame appears just above it, travels down the column of smoke to relight the candle. The flame dances brightly, burning hotter and hotter, climbing high enough that it might just catch fire against a bookcase if a slight wind were to blow, but instead, Jemma only stares at it, the flame burning in the backs of her retinas, and it grows smaller before separating from the candle entirely.

The isolated flame grows wider until it becomes a passable ball of fire resting in her palm, too warm but not burning. It sparks and she looks away, wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead with the back of her free hand before concentrating again, this time with her eyes closed as she forms the fire into shapes. Flowers, butterflies, a phoenix—anything that immediately comes to mind. A tree, for a brief moment, burning and beautiful and terrifying. She has no need to open her eyes, as she can see the images patterned against the back of her eyelids.

She closes her hand around the flame and quickly squeezes her fingers into a fist, extinguishing the flame and opening her eyes to watch as the floating, flaming phantoms before her go out in a shower of sparks that never reaches the floor.

Only two days ago, she had nearly collapsed doing this. Progress, she thinks grimly, returning to her books.

\-----

The first time Jemma falls and cuts her knee open, she cries as much as any child would, but there is an innate curiosity in her that makes her watch as the blood starts rolling down her leg. She stares--concentrates, really, like she's seen her mother do when she thinks Jemma isn't looking. Despite her determination, she sniffles and wipes away her tears, but slowly, she watches as the cut stops bleeding, instead starts to stitch itself back up. She nearly forgets her pain as she looks on in wonder. The only sign that there has been any injury is the trail of wet, dark blood down her leg.

She is scared, of course, but she is far more in awe about what has just happened, and when she runs back into the house to show her mother, she is filled to bursting with questions. _How did I do it? Why is there blood left on my leg? What did I even do? I know this isn't normal, so why was I able to heal myself?_ Jemma sits on a chair to listen to her mother's tentative story, rapt.

The story goes something like this.

_Once upon a time, there was a man--we'll call him Richard for now--a man who called himself an illusionist. Now, we both know that illusionists are masters of misdirection and everyone likes to call them magicians, but they merely make things appear to happen. The audience remains too distracted to see what is really happening and when the rabbit appears in the hat or the audience volunteer appears to be sawed in half, those things are not really happening. But Richard? He made illusions real._

_He could turn a book into a bird and back into a book again without batting an eye. He started fires in cupboards that didn't burn, didn't feel hot when you ran your fingers through it, and he could put them out with a wave of his hand. He could change the colour of his hair with just enough focus and all were none the wiser. He could make an entire deck of cards dance around you and it would delight and amaze, but he could just as easily turn the cards into weapons._

_In short, he was nearly magic, but magic is too broad a term, too boring. He was a manipulator. And one day, he was manipulated, too._

_Richard performed all over the world, but his favourite place would always be London. Close to home, close to familiarity in a world where he could change anything. One night, he finished his show with a shower of fireworks indoors, with no sound and no special help, and retreated to his dressing room, where a woman--let's call her Beth--was waiting, her eyes blazing._

_"I know what you're doing," she said, and he laughed._

_"I don't think so, darling," he replied, moving around her. No one had ever once figured out his secret._

_She whipped around, grabbing at his sleeve before he could sit down in front of the mirror. "You're not an illusionist. What you're doing is real, not the halfhearted tricks up the sleeves of every other magician in town."_

_That caught his attention._

_It turned out that Beth was an illusionist of equal talent, though vastly different in methodology. They spoke at length about their illusions and argued even more about why he was exploiting his abilities. But while they spoke and argued and fought, they fell in love, and Beth gave birth to a son._

Jemma frowns. "What was the moral of that story, Mummy?"

Jemma's mother sighs, kneeling on the floor beside the chair so she is level with her daughter's line of sight. "The moral of that story was that the talent for manipulation can be passed down and that Richard and Beth are your ancestors."

Her mother doesn't have to wait for long as Jemma's eyes light up in recognition almost immediately. " _I_ can do all of those things, too? Oh, is this what you do on stage?" It is as though Jemma has discovered an entirely new universe, like the scientists in her favourite books. "I _ma-ni-pu-la-ted_ the cut on my knee?" She struggles with the feel of the words in her mouth but it is fascinating, too, to put a name to what she can do.

"Yes, love," her mother says, a sad smile on her face. It is a universal answer to her questions "At work, I'm Viola the Illusionist. You can take a title like that one day." _Why is Mummy so sad? This is a very exciting discovery._ "And I can teach you how to heal an injury and have all of the blood flow back into the cut, too, if you would like to learn. I can teach you a lot of things." She stands and takes a few steps back. Jemma stares and for a moment, nothing happens.

When the toaster becomes a large, silver cat, Jemma shrieks with surprise and, a moment later, delight.

"Yes," Jemma replies when she catches her breath, starry-eyed with possibilities filling her little head. "Yes, Mummy, I would very much like to learn."

She cannot tell that her mother wishes she had said no, and perhaps it is better that way—that she doesn't know at all.

\-----

In another city in another country, a man waits at a table, a glass of wine in front of him, though it remains untouched. When the waiter arrives to ask if he'd like to order, the man says no and waves him away, but the waiter is not offended. Rather, he thinks he has forgotten some important task and quickly excuses himself.

The man waits until he sees the silhouette of a woman walking toward him. She is dressed in head-to-toe charcoal and her hair seems to appear the same sort of faded shade, though her face suggests that she is barely in her 30s. She sits down and takes his wine glass, swirling the red liquid with one hand.

"I take it you have a very good reason for the summons."

His lips are drawn in a thin line as he watches her. "I'd like to propose a game."

The woman takes a long sip from the wine glass, regarding it with some false determination before setting it down on the table. "Are you certain? Your student lost the last round."

He fetches a small black bag out of his jacket pocket, sliding it over. "A lack of finesse and a certain disregard for the rules," he says, dismissing the thought entirely. "She is promising, a predilection to magic. It's to be expected--after all, her parents..." He waves his hand vaguely. She knows what happened as well as he does.

She laughs, the sound echoing like bells in the strange, misty square. "I could take any child off of the streets and win."

"So we have a wager."

She watches him closely, her eyes scrutinising for a whole minute before she holds out her hand and nods. "As I assume I know who your student will be, should we agree on a confidentiality clause?"

He thinks for a moment, watching as her finger taps soundlessly against the wine glass. "No clauses, no rules this time. I want this to grow organically, and you can even make the first move." He reaches into his trouser pocket and pulls out a business card, two fingers pushing it toward Beth against the surface of the table. She raises an eyebrow in question and he shrugs. "Perhaps we might play this game in a more public venue."

The wine in the glass, though nearly gone only moments before, is refilled. "Public venues are so distracting," she replies, frowning slightly. "Have you changed your mind so quickly?"

"We all need a change of pace from time to time," he replies with a wave of his hand. "That card has the number of a producer who has a flair for the dramatic. I'll leave it up to you to decide when the game shall start."

\-----

Immediately, Jemma is told that she cannot lose her temper. The incident was minor, but it results in a stranger's wine glass shattering in her hand, and when she storms out of the building, spluttering and furious, Jemma's mother turns to her with a frown on her face.

So the young girl's first lesson is how to control her anger.

Though her mother never uses books to teach, Jemma finds herself reading as much as she can in her spare time. Books on biology and the history of the earth, of how things worked and why. Her mother teaches her physical manipulation, and that is what Jemma finds herself most drawn to. Viola the Enchantress is the one who slices open the young girl's fingers and waits until her tears subside enough to heal them only to slice them open again, but Jemma's mother is the one to apologise for hours afterward, kissing her daughter's forehead and holding her close.

She becomes intimately familiar with how her insides work, how blood flows to and from the heart, how to mend all injuries. She tests her own limits and falls out of trees, though only the low branches, and cries before she manages to repair the bone. She does this many times, mostly never telling her mother, just so she can practice.

On her ninth birthday, her mother comes to her, tears in her eyes, and tells Jemma that she has learned so much, but there is more to be taught that Viola the Enchantress cannot teach, and Jemma frowns. Her mother is so very smart, so why can she not teach her anymore? Before she can ask a million questions, her mother introduces her to a man whom she calls Richard.

Richard has a kind smile and promises to help her excel, and Jemma consents, her thirst for knowledge overwhelming her temporary sadness. Her mother had always said that life was fleeting and so must sadness be, and when she kisses her mother goodbye and tries to wipe away the tears from the woman's eyes, she repeats these words.

She doesn't look back or her own tears would come.

\-----

Richard brings her to a large house and Jemma's eyes are wide with wonder, but just after they have opened the gate and stepped in, her new teacher reaches a hand to clasp over her shoulder, stopping her from moving forward.

"My dear, you do want to learn about your abilities?" She nods vigorously, the plaits in her hair bouncing with the motion. He nods, and Jemma whips her head around toward the gate where a woman is now standing. Jemma frowns—the woman made no noise at all, but there was something about her that made Jemma turn. "This is Beth," he introduces, and suddenly Jemma's mind is spinning with the story her mother told her when she was little and she cannot speak, only stares with wide eyes.

Beth kneels down so they are eye level. "Jemma, is it?" Jemma nods, her tongue frozen in her mouth. "Would you be interested in a game?"

Jemma furrows her eyebrows, her mind going a million kilometers a minute, but the idea of a game sets her tongue loose for a few precious moments. "What kind of a game? Like chess?"

Beth gives her a sad smile that looks so much like her mother's that Jemma has to suppress a gasp. "No, not like chess."

Curiosity gets the best of her as she considers this for a moment. "I like games. Okay, Beth. I'll play!" Beth nods and pulls out a gilded ring, sliding it onto Jemma's right hand ring finger. The younger girl opens her mouth to state the obvious--that it is very pretty but it is far too big--when the ring begins to shrink. She beams as it approaches the right size but it continues shrinking and she bites her tongue to keep from screaming, though she desperately wants to. She tries to run but Beth has a firm grip on her wrist.

When the ring finishes burning itself into her skin and flesh, she quickly pulls back her hand, tears in her eyes.

She does not see Beth again for some time.


	2. an opponent

Fitz has always disliked his origin story.

(It is always an origin story, not a history. It sounds more interesting that way.)

A single mother who was struggling to raise a young son, precocious and too curious for his own good, working three jobs just to stay afloat. Leo Fitz had grown up exceptionally bored of his circumstances and wishing for a way to prove himself, even when he was six years old.

On the day of his eighth birthday, an opportunity to escape presents itself to him in the most unusual of ways.

Fitz was always quick, his size working in his favour, and when a woman in charcoal shouted to watch out, he managed to duck out of the way of a falling stepladder outside of the nearby trades building and, even more shocking still, managed to catch the paintbrush that came with it.

He loved his mother, truly, but when a woman who called herself Beth appears, seemingly out of nowhere, in the doorway to their meagre flat, he can't help but be curious. She offers food, room and board, and an education free of charge, if only the little boy could go with her and he jumps at the chance. (What he doesn't mention to his mother is that this is the same woman who had shouted at him to be careful when he miraculously avoided a messy end.) He can do something about his mother's routine, ease her worry just a little and watch the bags beneath her eyes ease a bit in size and shade. It is only logical for him to go with this woman, you see, as he can learn all there was to learn in the world and come back to help support his mother and make her troubles disappear.

No one tells him the truth of his circumstances, of course, and it is easier that way, too.

"Your name isn't Beth," he pipes up, frowning. He isn't sure how he knows this, but it feels like the right thing to say, the truth resonating in his bones.

The woman turns to look down at him, a smile on her face that didn't quite reach her eyes. "No, it isn't, but my name is not important." He lifts his chin, ready to speak, but she leans down to press a finger to his mouth. "Shh, little one. Your name is not important, either. Names are of little value and you can take one if you need it, whenever you need it."

He vows then and there that he will never need to take another name. He is Leopold Fitz, Leo to his mum, and Fitz to everyone else. It is the only identity he has ever known and no one else can take that from him.

He is given more books than he could ever have imagined, being a poor boy taken from Glasgow who had considered himself lucky to get a single present on any given year. The books begin to pile up, and they were never too similar to one another. Ancient Grecian history, mathematics, poetry, philosophy, chemistry—every subject imaginable, and Leo Fitz thinks he might have a book about nearly every basic subject in the world, and a good handful of the obscure subjects, too. Beth gives him very little explanation for what he is meant to be doing with all of this newfound knowledge, but he doesn't complain in the slightest, devouring each new book given to him, typically within days, if not hours.

With each day comes a new addition to his library, as well as a visit from Beth, who lectures at length about many subjects and no subject at all, simultaneously. He isn't sure if he quite understands everything she says to him, though he listens with fierce attention and wonders how she performed these illusions so well.

(Magic was the wrong word for it, and the answer he thought he was looking for was years of study.)

At some point—Fitz can no longer remember _exactly_ when, but it must have been around his tenth birthday—Beth begins including blank journals in the piles of books she gives him, with no instruction. At first, he assumes it is for writing, which he did for a time, but he found it too boring. Instead, he begins drawing; abstract objects at first, then the concrete. Drawings of landscapes, people on the streets, inventions that would never see the light of day. He fills pages with drawings based on the books he reads every day.

Shortly after she started leaving these filled journals around the flat, Beth has a computer installed specifically for his use, and he begins transferring all of his knowledge. He still keeps all of the notebooks, but technology is so much better suited to his endeavours. One of the many improvements from using the computer instead of notebooks and ink is that Fitz no longer has ink stains riddling everything he owns. Often, he would find his hands stained, hurriedly looking for a mirror only to find that there were smudges of ink all over his face. He prefers being neat in this regard, though his work space suggests otherwise, notebooks and text strewn all over the room.

Many of his programs result in holographic trees. He works on sketching them and weaving his knowledge into each symbol that becomes the branches, filling several hard drives with these projections of nature.

He is far more intelligent than one would suspect of a boy his age, and when he puts the pieces together and asks Beth why he is learning, she gives him a typical non-answer until he finally asks, "Are you training me for some sort of contest?"

Beth turns from the doorway and gives a small smile. "Yes, you could say that."

\-----

Sometimes he wonders how this semi-solitude compares to what he might have been subjected to still living with his mother. He misses her dearly, and he does phone her from time to time, but he is usually so absorbed in his studies that he often forgets and he thinks his mother might be better off not talking to a son who forgets.

His closet is filled with clothing that he hasn't bought, but Beth seems to find things that suit him. Jumpers, button-down shirts, and ties that almost seem out-of-place with the current trends, but he has never been particularly concerned with appearances. He is particularly fond of the plaid shirts--they remind him of home, of Glasgow. Beth has stayed within Scotland, at least, and though he feels out of place somehow in Edinburgh, at least she hasn't taken him to live somewhere else entirely. There is a lot of travelling to be done, though, and that is something he enjoys immensely.

Beth takes him to museums and though he is more fascinated by the exhibits and demonstrations, she insists on giving him lectures on subjects that don't seem to relate to the exhibits. She takes him to libraries where she leaves him to his own devices for hours; she directs him to feats of modern architecture; she brings him to the most breathtaking natural sights in the world. But the places she takes him that stand out the most are the shows.

Fitz is entirely unimpressed by the first, an average magician who uses more misdirection than most--a mirror to hide the rabbit in a box, a false bottom in a hat to conceal a live dove, an assistant to distract the audience while something happens. He notices everything and barely claps at the end. The second is noticeably better, though, but Fitz catches all of his mistakes and manages to clap this time.

The third shocks him.

All of his studies don't prepare him for a display of the work he has only imagined in his mind. The woman onstage turns a hat into a rabbit with no misleading, no attempt to distract the audience. She turns the mobiles of unsuspecting audience members into guinea pigs and back, giving them just enough time to shriek and wonder how she manages it. She is performing feats that Beth has been teaching him and has warned him about revealing to the public. How do they not see the difference? Viola the Enchantress bows to thunderous applause and Fitz almost forgets to bring his hands together.

He follows Beth out of the auditorium and she turns to him just as they separate from the crowd so no one hears. "What did you notice?" she asks him, just like she asks him after every other performance.

"The other magicians use contraptions and mirrors to put the audience off of their scent, to distort and misdirect. This woman... She didn't use anything like that. She was performing manipulations and pretending to be less skilled than she was." He frowns, looking up at this woman who has taken him in. There is a small smile on her face as she regards him. "Are there more people in the world who can do what we do?"

She nods. "Not many, but there are a few." Beth has never been a woman of many words, except during her lectures, and Fitz finds that comforting, in a strange way. It is something he comes to expect, in a world where everything is unexpected. She straightens and weaves her way into the crowd, and he follows.

When they arrive back at the hotel room, she pulls out a small, black drawstring bag and empties its contents onto the nightstand and he sits on the edge of the bed, reaching for the silver ring that has spilled out. It is just beginning to tarnish and he can make out some sort of engraving, but it is too small to discern when Beth calls his attention once more. "Today, we will learn about binding." She nods at the ring and he reaches for it, his brow furrowed as he slips it on. 

The ring disappears into his flesh, leaving a raw, red mark and he stares at the woman accusingly. She gives him a brief lesson that day and leaves.

He looks down at the calendar on the nightstand and knows that this is the worst birthday present he's even gotten, and will remember his sixteenth year with bittersweet memories. He spends the rest of the evening gazing into a mirror.

\-----

Fitz studies binding until he has the mechanics of it memorised like a second skin and practises writing programs for it, but mostly he wills it into being. The charm itself is nothing more than concentration, but it requires willpower and a desire to see it through as much as it does the actual knowledge of what is happening. He prefers the programs, but Beth stresses the ability to work without them for this particular use only, so he works hard until he gets it right.


	3. preliminary maneuvers

**LONDON, ENGLAND**

A book turns into an eagle and then back again. Jemma smiles, rifling through the pages before changing it back into its avian form. The eagle soars around the field before she calls it back, bringing it to the barn so he has room to roam without fear of escape. (She keeps telling Richard that this is unnecessary, as the bird knows her as well as it knows itself, but he insists on the precaution.)

She is twenty now, and when the letter arrives bringing news of her mother's death a mere two hours later when she returns to the house, she cannot bring herself to cry. Instead, she breaks the china slowly, piece by piece, punches through the glass of each cabinet, sends the paintings flying. There's a noise of irritation from the hall, but Jemma doesn't turn around to see Richard staring disapprovingly. Instead, she lets her anger get the best of her though it hasn't done so in too long, and when she has broken nearly everything in the room, blood dripping down her arm from the shards of glass, she starts.

The blood begins to roll back across her skin, and she concentrates on the placement of veins and muscle and tissue. She has studied them so well that she knows her inner workings far better than anyone should, and when the cuts seal themselves, she flexes her fingers with a small smile of pride. She then starts repairing the splintered furniture all at once and when the framework is standing, she melds the glass shards together.

When the entire room looks exactly like it had when she first entered, she retires to her room for some time without reappearing.

The condolences come from all over the world, individually or forwarded from theatres, into the email inbox that Jemma hardly uses. People who have seen Viola the Illusionist perform, old friends, people about whom Jemma doesn't care. She refuses to open these for months, letting them pile up in her inbox and gather dust. The flowers arrive, too, and she is surrounded by lilies and orchids and so many white flowers that first she considers burning them all in the field outside with a well-placed spark, but it would attract too much attention. Instead, she changes the colours of the flowers from white to blood red and pink and orange, to blue and yellow and even black. She changes the scents to evoke wildfire, freshly baked bread, and petrichor. When she is finally tired of toying with them, she changes them all to carnations and waits for them to wilt with time.

\-----

**NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK, USA**

Fitz sits in a cafe, typing away at his laptop. He has a shielding charm placed around him, for if anyone were to glance over at him, they might think he was up to no good. (Good is always in the eye of the beholder, he scoffs, though he uses the precaution anyway.) Though his mentor has finally settled, it seems, giving him a flat of his own in the heart of New York City, he feels most at ease wandering. Even at twenty and finally left to his own devices, he feels more comfortable outside of a suffocatingly lonely flat. He works on transferring old notebooks into files, copying symbols and patterns where he can, but sometimes he prefers to sketch them. It relieves stress, he says, though Beth never says anything but often gives him looks that he cannot interpret.

He is staring at one particular page with a large tree drawn entirely of alchemical symbols when his screen flashes once and he lets his guard down, nearly dropping his notebook. "What is happening?!" he mutters to himself, trying in vain to understand the nonsense sprawled across his screen.

"A _ha_ ," a voice says from behind him, and he jumps before turning around. A girl slightly younger than him, with dark eyes and hair that fades from dark to light, is clutching an open laptop in one hand and a coffee in the other, looking triumphant. "So you're the one my hack found. Huh, I didn't even see you over here until just now. Did you just appear out of nowhere?"

He blinks rapidly before turning to his screen, which has gone back to normal. Fitz hardly expected someone to hack his laptop, but he vows to make sure it doesn't happen again. "You could say that," he replies wryly, looking back up at her. "Er, might I ask why you were hacking?"

She sits down at the empty chair across from him though he hasn't invited her to do so, but he's far more alarmed than irritated--he needs to know what she has seen. "That's what I do," she says blithely, and he glares at her until she gives a better explanation. "Sometimes I come here and just see what kind of people are here. Usually it's really boring stuff, like checking social media and writing really inappropriate emails, but I've never seen this sort of stuff before and I'm good with computers. Like, _really_ good."

Despite her rambling, she doesn't seem to think he's strange and Fitz is so starved of socialising that he can't help but smile, raising an eyebrow. She had simply been _bored_ when she hacked into his computer. "That's because I invented this." He pauses with a frown, trying to read the indecipherable name on her cup. "What's your name?"

Her smile falters. "Skye." It sounds like a lie, but he doesn't pry further.

"Fitz. It's my last name, but no one calls me anything but Fitz." She sticks out her hand and he shakes it briefly before dropping it. They converse lightly, neither one revealing much, but it's more than Fitz has managed in some time, as Beth is the only person he ever sees that speaks to him. Even then, it's far more of a teacher-student relationship than a friendship.

A half hour goes by and Fitz looks up at the strange girl across from him who hacks computers and smiles like she knows everyone's secrets (she probably does, he concedes) and he sighs almost imperceptibly before she speaks again. "So, if you don't mind me prying, you said you invented this language?" He nods. "I've never seen anything like it before. Well, I think I have, but it seems like some weird mash-up of so many different things. I see a bunch of formulas and some Greek letters, but none of that is even remotely traditional, no C or even Java."

He looks around quickly before placing a charm around them again. "Are you sure you want to know?"

She nods. He can see the curiosity taking over and he sighs again, running the program. "Close your eyes," he says, and he murmurs under his breath the words he has been practising all his life for no one except himself to see. "Now open them."

She does and she gasps, nearly knocking herself backward. They are no longer sitting at a table but instead atop two large rocks, a salty sea breeze blowing past them. She quickly stands up and spins around. There is sand beneath their feet and the coast is only a few feet away, the waves of water lapping up and washing away small seashells and bits of driftwood. There are seagulls squawking at each other and Skye turns to face him, her brows furrowed.

"How the hell are you doing it? Can anyone else see this?"

He chuckles, looking out toward the sea. He wasn't sure if this would work and he's relieved it did. "No one else can see it unless they can break past the shield I've created. It's an illusion," he says, crossing his arms across his chest, "and it works best if someone is within proximity. As for your first question... I've had a lot of practice."

"Shit," she murmurs appreciatively, and he snorts. "Can you teach me?"

Fitz freezes, considering this for nearly a minute. "I don't see why not."

\-----

**LONDON, ENGLAND**

The emails are beginning to overflow, and one inbox shouts FULL at her as another begins to receive incoming messages in droves, so she makes herself a pot of tea and begins to tackle the task of reading them all. She is thankful that years of sneaking in reading whenever she could makes her a very fast reader, but even with her ability it might take some time, and she decides to turn the task into a practice session, writing out each email onto a piece of paper without touching a pen.

Most are filled with kind but empty words, about how her mother's performances were transcendent and awe-inspiring and that they're very sorry to hear of her passing. She reads these with a face of stone and deletes them carefully, turning each copy into a folded swan before sending them flying around the room until the air is heavy with paper birds. She lights them all on fire and watches with a vindictive pleasure as they spark.

Some are filled with sorrow to a degree with which she cannot empathise, and she crumples these into balls before turning them to ice, shattering them with a mere breath.

The most disturbing are the marriage proposals. These are read with red cheeks flushed from embarrassment and from anger and these she wills out of existence entirely. "I am already _married_ ," she says scathingly, staring at the red scar around her right ring finger, the gold ring usually on her finger sitting on the desk in front of her. "I don't need your empty words."

When she finishes three days later, she decides she will check the emails as they come in, rather than waiting until they pile up so.

\-----

**NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK, USA**

"There is no freaking way I'm going to get this."

Fitz scoffs, shooting a derisive glance at his new friend. "If you focused on something for maybe more than thirty seconds at a time, you might get it," he says, returning his gaze to the screen in front of him. His eyes are starting to water, but he's determined to get this program right. Beth doesn't seem to believe that her methods will translate too well to technology, but Fitz is insistent on proving her wrong.

Skye sticks out her tongue at him and he only notices it out of the corner of his eye but he ignores her. "I can focus just fine. Have you seen me hacking?"

"That's about the only thing you've got going for you in terms of concentration." He ducks, narrowly avoiding being hit in the side of the head with a flying ball of yarn.

She frowns, staring at the string and ribbons in front of her. "Why do I have to braid this by hand anyway? Wouldn't it be a hell of a lot easier for both me and you if I just did this on a program? I'm sort of learning your weird language, after all."

Fitz stops typing then, turning to her with a frown. "As much as I agree with you, learning it by hand has to come first or the language will just be symbols and words on a screen. Each strand represents an element, and you use your intent to influence the subject."

Skye throws her head back with a dramatic sigh, her hands falling to her sides. "I'm throwing in the towel for today," she announces, her voice tinged with annoyance before she sits up and unknots the threads.

He looks up from his screen and makes a face at her before he sighs, rubbing at his temples. "Fine. Can you help me, then?" Skye sits up slightly straighter in her seat, nodding once because her curiosity's gotten the best of her. "Think of something... Something significant. An object I couldn't possibly know anything about." It shouldn't be hard, as they've hardly revealed anything about themselves to each other, which somehow made their camaraderie steadier. Her brows knit together but she obliges, and he picks out the image from her mind almost immediately. "It's a thumb drive. Mostly silver with some generic engraving, but you've got it on a thread around your neck."

Skye frowns and her hand reaches for the cord around her throat. "How the fuck did you guess that?"

"It wasn't a guess," he replies vaguely, picking up on the fragments of memory that still cling to the drive. "An old boyfriend helped you collect whatever files are on there, right?" She starts to protest but he holds up a hand. "I won't pry any further because I know this is getting into personal territory."

Skye wrinkles her nose and looks down at the now torn-apart braid. "Well, thank you for not being a complete asshole."

He's about to throw some witty retort back in her direction when there's a knock on the door and they both freeze. Skye doesn't move and Fitz doesn't care, but he knows that there is only one person that knocks unannounced. He gets out of his chair and walks toward the entranceway, turning the doorknob to find Beth standing there with a slight frown turning down the corners of her mouth. She has never entered the flat, but Fitz still feels his hands grow clammy, like a child caught misbehaving. "I hope you've been practising," she says, and he nods, looking down at his feet before she speaks again. "Here."

She hands him a faded business card, slightly frayed at the edges but the words on it are still quite legible. Fitz turns it over in his hands several times. "You are to apply for a job with this man. I've set up an interview and given him my glowing recommendation, but you will have to do all that you can to secure the position."

He frowns, staring at the name. "Is this how the game starts?"

Beth's eyes roam his face. He briefly notices that they're now of the same height but the glint of something he doesn't recognise shines from her eyes and he is taken aback. "Sort of. It's a preliminary move."

"When am I going to know when it has started, then?"

She turns away and starts walking down the empty hall. "You'll know when."

He stands in the doorway and does not turn around for some time until Skye asks him if he's okay or if he's gone catatonic.


	4. an audition

**LONDON, ENGLAND AND VARIOUS**

Richard does not quite allow Jemma to step into her mother's now vacated spotlight, but Jemma finds that she prefers this to being constantly bothered by fans and those obsessed with feats of illusion. However, he doesn't let her go quite unscathed. She is asked to perform on the street several nights a week--nothing elaborate like the work she usually does, but simple parlor tricks. Making a cage of birds disappear, only to reemerge one by one from behind the ears of street walkers; turning brightly coloured handkerchiefs into smoke and then into a rabbit or three. When the streets of whichever city they're haunting aren't teeming with crowds, she amuses herself by changing the colour of the handkerchiefs, making them flicker between blue and green and pale pink, painting them with gold thread or paisley print. She has a particular penchant for manipulating fabric and her own physical appearance; she enjoys the former and loathes the latter.

Changing her appearance only happens when she starts becoming more recognised, and she has to change her tricks in addition to her face. It bothers her greatly, and when her mentor finally agrees to stay put in London for some time, she rejoices in the familiarity of her own face, feeling her cheekbones and noting that brown eyes suit her far better than the blue she has worn for so long. Richard holes himself up upstairs for hours at a time, if not days, and she finds herself leaving him food at the door, often nearly tripping over it hours later.

She spends a great deal of time going in and out of bookstores, coming home with a new stack at least three times a week. Richard hardly spares them a glance, which is mildly disturbing, but nothing will ruin her newfound freedom, however temporary it may be. Jemma doesn't spend as much time practising as she probably should, but she changes bedposts into tree trunks and fills the room with flapping novels as she absentmindedly sits reading. When she puts her books down to allow her eyes to adjust and her brain to return crashing back down to reality, she breaks every object in the house in order to put them back together.

The worst part is shattering her own bones and she holds back tears as she repairs them, feeling exactly how the marrow sets before the rest does. She has never quite mastered not crying when she breaks bones.

Jemma is still rubbing her wrist when she pushes into Richard's study. He is standing somewhere in the shadows and she can just make out his silhouette, but he hasn't acknowledged her presence. His eyes are trained on his hand, which Jemma cannot see, only catches glints of it in the dim beams of moonlight, but then it reappears suddenly. "What in the world are you doing?" Jemma asks, frowning, and Richard's head turns toward her.

"It's none of your concern," he says coldly, before his expression softens. "Thank you for dinner. Now, I kindly request that you leave."

The image of a disappearing hand haunts Jemma's dreams that night.

**NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK, USA**

A midnight meeting is called within a townhouse in the heart of the city, the first of what would be many. The people in attendance were few—a woman dressed in all black with deep red hair, two women with dark hair though one has several red streaks through hers, a man with an eye patch, and a woman whose entire appearance seems indistinct and forgettable, though simultaneously leaving quite the impression, all dressed in dark grey—but they were enough to set the plan into motion. A circus that opens from dusk to dawn and no longer than that, one that breaks boundaries and exceeds expectations. Blueprints are examined and elaborated upon shortly after an extravagant meal, and when company leaves that night, the stack of plans has over tripled in number. Fitz nearly trips down the hall twice carrying them back to the office, given the task of transferring them to a more easily edited method.

The seventh monthly midnight meeting brings the arrival of an uninvited but not unwelcome guest (perhaps to replace the oft-absent Beth, Fitz thinks bitterly). The woman is dressed in black from head to toe, but that does not disguise the winding tattoo that is visible at the nape of her neck and around her wrists. Fitz stares, though not because of her beauty, though it does brighten his boss' face—no, he is staring at the tattoo. At first glance, it appears to be one elaborate swirl that must cover her entire body, but upon further inspection, as he manages while taking her leather jacket to hang in the hall closet, it is clearly made of what must be hundreds of small tattoos. Alchemical and astrological symbols, the phases of the moon (a crescent at the nape of her neck), letters of the English and Greek sort, Chinese characters, Norse runes, and others that he doesn't see.

She merely smiles and does not address his curious stare. She gives her name as Qiaolian, but does not elaborate—a woman of few words, though it is quickly noted that she is a performer. She moves with the fluidity of a dancer, though what she does is not quite dance. It is militant, almost a choreographed fight, but none of it appears jarring. All eyes are trained on her, and when she finishes, it's as though a spell was broken--Maria swears she heard music and Natasha agrees.

It is decided that she must be one of the performers with her own feature to showcase her, and she becomes a constant reference as to what the circus should be: elegant, unusual, beautiful, provocative.

\-----

**CHICAGO, ILLINOIS, USA**

When Nick Fury arrives at the small office with an unusual request, the man who runs the shop becomes fixated on the new project: a clock to represent a circus, done only in black, white, and shades of grey. He is told to make it dreamlike, so he does. He focuses on how a pocket watch runs, how the gears fit together and spin the hands of the clock. Instead of following in his grandfather's footsteps, however, he turns clockwork into a modern marvel, creating clocks out of a thin piece of glass and writing programs to maintain it. He creates a masterpiece—monochromatic but showcasing images that shouldn't be possible on such a narrow screen—it is sent off to the address left with him, and he receives an exorbitantly large sum in return.

Antoine Triplett dreams about a midnight circus for weeks.

\-----

**LONDON, ENGLAND**

When Jemma next checks her email, there are a considerably lesser amount of condolences, though the occasional well-wisher is thanked and the marriage proposals are deleted without opening.

One email catches her eye, however. There is no sender, no subject, and for all intents and purposes, she thinks it might be a glitch in the system, but when she opens it, there are two words written.

 _Your move_.

She can't help the shiver that travels her spine as she leaps up to tell Richard.

\-----

**LAS VEGAS, NEVADA, USA**

The number of illusionists in the hallway outside of the double doors is unprecedented. It looks as though a sea has been constructed of white shirts and pristine suits with brightly coloured pocket squares, shimmering bizarrely in the fluorescent lighting, though most are dressed less conspicuously, in leather jackets and denim trousers. Each man has brought something along—a birdcage, a trunk, the ostensibly silly cape. They are called in by the number handed to them by a woman who appeared rather bored, written on a post-it note in a sloppy hand. No one speaks, though many furtive glances are thrown.

None are on the receiving end of these glances as much as the girl. A few mistook her for an assistant, but she has her own number (27).

She alone sits in a chair with no accessory—no birdcage, no trunk, no cape. In fact, she is entirely missing the fluff and frills of her fellow performers. She is dressed in a loose black cardigan with silver thread woven into it, a white blouse with blue detailing and polka dots, jeans the shade of cornflowers at midday, and boots with lacing up to her calves. Her light brown hair is left loose in soft curls around her face. She looks young but there's an air about her, the way she carries herself perhaps, that suggests otherwise, yet many of the auditionees call her the girl later when they recall the experience. She does not acknowledge any of the glances or outright stares in her direction, instead keeping her gaze alternating between her hands folded in her lap and the door.

One by one, the numbers are called by a man with a notebook and pen, and the crowd dwindles as one illusionist after the other enters the theatre, only to leave through the same door through which they entered. Some remain in the theatre for minutes, while others stay for much longer. Those with higher numbers fidget with impatience, but still nothing is said, all waiting for their numbers to be called to prove their worth.

The last man exits the theatre with a frown, closing the door behind him with more force that completely necessary, and the man with the notebook clears his throat as though in apology before scanning his list. "Twenty-seven," he calls out, the echo of his voice dampened by the number of bodies in the space. All eyes turn to look at the girl as she stands up, brushing her hands against her thighs.

Fitz watches as she approaches the doors, his brow furrowed before his mild confusion is replaced with something else entirely. She is pretty from afar but when she approaches, he suddenly forgets exactly what he should be doing and why she is handing him a slip of paper with a number written on it in his scrawl.

"This way, please," he manages to say before it gets too awkward, and he tears his eyes away as she gives him a small nod of thanks before entering the theatre. He shuts the door behind them with a loud thud, but not before the hallway begins to buzz with voices asking questions about her.

\-----

The theatre is old-fashioned in its decor, ornate and extravagant with gold furnishings and deep red velvet seats. The orchestra, mezzanine, and balcony are all empty save for two seats in the center of the main floor, where a man and a woman are sitting, looking entirely bored. They hardly notice the assistant and a girl in black and blue walking toward the stage until Fitz clears his throat again, gesturing toward the stage so that the girl would take center, his eyes hardly glancing away.

"Number twenty-seven," Fitz says, and Coulson looks up, a slow grin appearing on his face.

"It's about time we had a female illusionist show up," the older man says, his tie loosened around his neck from a long day of observation. "I'm Phil Coulson and this is Natasha Romanov. Why aren't there more of you hanging about in the lobby?"

The girl shrugs, her hands clasped in front of her. "We're just as capable, sir, but perhaps they're intimidated. I'm not so easily trodden upon."

Coulson gives another grin to her cheeky response. "Although, you've got a bit more sleeve to hide things in," he notes, nodding at her jumper. She raises an eyebrow but says nothing, instead making short work of the article and dropping it onto the ground. The man nods at Fitz, who remembers to breathe just then.

"We have some questions to start this off, if you don't mind. Your name, please?"

"Jemma Simmons."

He writes this down in his notebook, wishing near violently that his laptop hadn't glitched this morning. "And your stage name?"

"I don't have one."

He nods, writing this down, as well. "How old are you, and where you have performed professionally?"

"I'm 24, and I've never formally performed, though I've studied with a professional."

Coulson sits up. "If you don't mind me asking, who taught you?"

"My mother, Eleanor Simmons," she replies, pausing for a moment before adding, "Though you might know her as Viola the Enchantress." Fitz drops his pen.

Natasha raises an eyebrow and speaks for the first time. "Viola the Enchantress? She was your mother?" Jemma nods, chewing at her lower lip. Coulson opens his mouth to speak, perhaps to ask who Viola the Enchantress was, but Natasha silences him before he can even begin. "She was the best illusionist of the generation. I attended her performances whenever I could, but that was some time ago. I've never seen anything like it." She pauses, considering Jemma on the stage. "I think it's safe to say that if Viola was her teacher, she's got to be good."

Jemma's gaze flits toward the side of the stage but she says nothing, only bowing her head in humble thanks. Fitz looks at Coulson, who nods at him and he continues down the list of questions. "A-are you able to perform without a stage?" She nods. "Can your illusions be viewed from all angles?"

She purses her lips slightly, turning toward the two people in the audience. "You'd like to have an illusionist who can perform in the center of a crowd?" Coulson nods, so Jemma picks up her jumper and tosses it high into the air over the empty seats, where, instead of tumbling down, it lifts as though carried by an invisible current, a gust of wind that no one else in the theatre feels, folding into itself. Where there was one softly knitted fabric is now feathers shot through with grey, and it is entirely impossible to pinpoint when cloth became bird. The raven flies in circles near the vaulted ceiling of the theatre.

"Very nice," Natasha says, whistling low, "but how do we know that bird wasn't hidden somewhere?"

Jemma smiles beatifically, walking toward Fitz. "Could I borrow that for a moment?" He tries not to stare outright and fails as he gives a perfunctory nod, handing the notebook to her. "Thank you," she says before returning to the center of the stage. She looks down at the list of questions with a brief, curious glance before tossing the notebook into the air, too, where it begins to fall too quickly but then the paper turns into a white dove. The bird circles the theatre, too, and the raven caws loudly at it.

"Impressive," Natasha says, nodding, and Coulson snickers quietly at his assistant's expression.

The dove returns to sit daintily on Jemma's outstretched fingers, where she runs her free hand over its wings before letting it fly again. It rises three feet in the air before bird becomes paper once more and Jemma catches the notebook with one hand, handing it to Fitz, who looks like he might be sick.

"Thank you again," she says, a smile on her face and Fitz can't meet her eyes as he makes a noise that implies recognition.

Coulson and Natasha exchange looks. "We have to discuss the colour scheme. All black and white," she adds as Jemma looks ready to ask, "Hold on just a moment." The two co-conspirators begin whispering to each other, distracted. Fitz remains the only one staring at her.

It is no surprise that he is the only one to notice when her blouse's detailing darkens, the black creeping down to her jeans. A sound like a choked gasp escapes his throat and Coulson and Natasha turn to see the change, the laces of her boots fading to a bright white.

"That makes my job much easier," Natasha says with a clap of her hands, "though your hair is definitely too light." Jemma smiles again, shaking out her hair and it darkens to black, shining in the warm light of the theatre.

Coulson nods in agreement. "Jemma Simmons, would you be interested in joining our little project?" Fitz approaches with the notebook, his eyes not fully leaving her.

She opens her mouth to speak but then seems to remember the raven perched on the balcony railing. "Sorry, hold on," she says, holding out a finger to the audience, looking sheepish. She lifts her other hand and beckons to the large bird, which spreads its wings and takes flight, beelining for the stage with alarming speed and only accelerating more. It flies directly at Jemma without pause and when it crashes into her in a burst of feathers, everyone jumps.

Fitz is first to realise the bird is gone. Instead, Jemma is once again wearing her cardigan and she bends at the waist, taking a brief bow.

"She's good," Coulson remarks, looking out in awe. "Almost too good."

"Yeah," Fitz says in agreement, trying not to show the tremor that has taken a hold of his hands.

\-----

The men waiting in the hallway shoot Fitz looks when he dismisses them.

\-----

**NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK, USA**

The door bursts open and Skye jumps nearly a foot in the air when a frazzled Fitz flies through the room, his suitcase abandoned at the door. "Um... Hi?" He wrings his hands in response, sitting down at the computer and reaching for the closest book, flipping with reckless abandon to what looks to be a precise page. Skye whistles, the sound low but it echoes around the room. "Whoa. Did it go that badly?"

He looks up at his screen, his eyes flying through lines of code. "I know who my opponent is," he half-announces, half-shouts in lieu of a greeting, and her eyebrows shoot up toward her hairline.

"Who is it?"

A book goes flying from his lap as he reaches for another one, furiously searching for something. "It's Viola's daughter."

Skye considers this for a moment, frowning as she tugs at the braid she had been working on. "Viola... Is that the lady you were talking about that does magic the way you do?"

Fitz turns to her and stares as though he didn't actually know she was in the room. "It's not magic," he snaps, before making a noise of frustration. "And yes, that's the one. Apparently she had a daughter and Coulson just hired her as the illusionist for the circus."

She considers this for a moment before her eyes narrow at the screen in front of him as though she might be able to make out what he's doing. "So she's going to perform your sort of magic and pass them off as stage illusions," she states, ignoring his outburst. "Is she good?"

"Too good. Brilliant, really," he says halfheartedly, getting up from his seat to find several more books on the shelves in his study, craning his neck to read the titles on spines not in his sight line. Fitz picks tome after tome, the stack in his arms growing nearly over his head and in his haste to return to his desk, he knocks over old notebooks that rustle as they fall, the whisper of wings echoing around the room. "It's lucky she doesn't know who I am," he mutters, more to himself than to Skye.

She frowns. "So the circus is your arena and that's why you were sent to work for Coulson." He doesn't answer, which she takes to mean his agreement. She turns back to her laptop, doing a cursory search of Viola the Enchantress, and while there are several pictures of her, there are none of a daughter. If the mother's looks are anything to go by, though... She pulls out her cards and discretely pulls one out. _The Lovers_. "Is she pretty?" she asks, grinning cheekily.

Fitz does not answer, but she sees a blush crossing his cheeks and her grin widens. Minutes pass as he rifles through pages and volumes, muttering to himself, and she watches a video of one of Viola's performances. She makes every performance look effortless, and Skye reaches for another card. _The Tower_. "Is she stronger than you?" Skye asks, frowning as she turns back to the screen.

Once again, Fitz does not answer.

He has always felt that his abilities were strong, that he was prepared for when the challenge would begin. Having Skye around meant that he could practice his illusions until even she couldn't quite grasp what was real and what wasn't, as familiar as she was. Instead, whatever confidence he once had begins to be replaced by anxiety. Perhaps he once believed that the game would never actually happen, instead remaining an unreachable goal that would further his studies, but now that he is faced with it, he feels woefully unprepared.

"How are we supposed to compete when the circus is a _travelling_ circus? I'm staying in London so I have to do everything remotely... I suppose I could—"

"—Fitz, stop mumbling to yourself. You're going to give yourself an ulcer. I can go." He looks up at her, almost comically startled. "Look, you said that the circus needed a fortune teller, right? I'm pretty good at reading people and I can read tarot cards to some extent—"

"—you never told me that," he interrupts, holding a finger up in thought.

She shrugs, holding up her deck so he can see them. "It never came up. But look, we can test out the holographic technology we've been developing so I can quickly look up any information on a client without them knowing, and I'll piece it together with the card reading. It'll give me something to do while you're working yourself to death on your game, and I can send you emails about what's happening."

Fitz considers this as he sits hunched over a book in his lap. In theory, Skye should never have gotten involved, but he can't push away the idea of having someone on the inside to update him on the goings on of the circus. It's a tactic that Beth has never explicitly warned him not to do, and he is desperate for an advantage that he might need, a desperation that overrides his usual distaste for rule-breaking. "You'd need to meet with Coulson," he says slowly. He is loath to surrender the only friendship that he has ever had, one that was not chosen for him like everything else in his life has been, but he thinks he might be out of options.

Skye grins, knowing that Fitz has all but accepted the offer. "Not a problem. Besides, you can persuade him to hire me if he needs convincing." She taps her temple, a secret between the two of them.

He nods, thoughts flying through his mind faster than he can fully process them. "Can I see your cards?" She nods, moving them into view and he takes the deck carefully, flipping over the top card. _The Magician_ , he notes, giving the cards back with a smile.

She takes them back as he moves toward his own computer. "I'm sure you'll be fine, Fitz, stop pacing so much. You're going to give _me_ an ulcer and I'm not even the one trapped in some sort of competition." He purses his lips but says nothing, eyes flicking downward at the red scar around his finger.


	5. opening night

**NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK, USA  
THREE YEARS LATER**

Opening night is an astounding feat. A crowd has been slowly gathering outside of the gates since a few hours before sundown and when they're finally let in, there is curiosity written on every face that is slowly replaced with wonder.

Though this is the first time that the entire circus has been together, not a single visitor could have guessed it. Each act has been training in their own country and now they perform in adjacent tents, melding seamlessly together as though they have always been a whole. Each element of the circus comes together exactly as planned but infinitely more perfect than anyone could have imagined.

At midnight, a display toward the front of the gates takes place at the black wrought-iron sculpture. At first glance, it appears to be merely curling strips of metal reaching for the sky. Though there is no fuss from the circus performers, an audience gathers anyway, and when the elaborate clock at the gates begins to chime, flames appear from within a cauldron that is difficult to spot amidst the organised chaos of the artwork.

The flames appear real, flickering and dancing, though someone points out that there was no sound of a lighter and they are only visible in two dimensions. With each chime, the flames change colour--yellow, light blue, pink, orange, scarlet, deep crimson, burgundy, violet, indigo, a deep navy that is almost black. The eleventh chime turns the flames so midnight black that they are indistinguishable from the sculpture, but no one has time to squint before the final chime, when the flames turn a bright white. White curls of smoke fold upward and out toward the sky, stopping just short of the tops of most tents. 

The crowd cheers loudly. Those who wanted to leave decide to stay longer and the lighting ceremony becomes a topic of conversation for the rest of the night.

The entire circus resides within a large, perfectly round enclosure, each tent similarly circular. Some acts are contained within such tents and others are placed outside so that visitors might find something they enjoy while they wander around the winding paths, dusted in white. There are vendors selling all sorts of foods—apples covered in sticky caramel that almost appears black, cinnamon dusted confections, steaming mulled cider. Visitors remark that the food and drink are superb, though no one understands how they've managed it, turning simple carnival fare into something closer to gourmet cuisine. The tents themselves are inconspicuous, either entirely black or white or striped in the two colours and decorated only with a small digital sign displaying the name of the act inside in curling script. Some signs only display an illustration.

Some patrons attempt to enter each tent, others making careful choices based on the signs they read, and still others find a single tent so remarkable that their attention remains devoted to it for the rest of the night. Patrons recommend tents to each other with zeal and the advice is always taken with a smile, but one often gets lost before one finds a recommended performance.

It becomes difficult to clear the circus of its visitors once the sun begins to rise.

Opening night is a marked success, though one single event goes unnoticed by everyone except the illusionist, at first.

Shortly before midnight, there is a rustle in the bushes just outside the gates, and two small children appear. No one appears to be in this particular section of the circus, so they decide to sneak in.

"Maybe we can find a family here," the little boy whispers to the little girl. They can't be older than four or five judging on appearances, though they seem so world-weary already. "Remember all of the stories about running away to the circus?"

The girl nods, though both of them hesitate at the gates. "Okay. Who goes first?"

He looks apprehensive. "You should."

She sticks out her tongue and lets go of his hand, letting her hands wrap around the iron-wrought bars. "Okay, scaredy-cat," she teases, not giving him a chance to retort before squeezing herself easily through the bars. "Stay here. I'm going to look around."

There doesn't seem to be a big difference between the outside and here inside the circus, but Callie looks around for a minute or two. Each of the tents here is a nondescript white and it is far quieter than the front, and Callie darts around several tents before returning to the gate. "Come on, Seth, we can hide in here."

Right before the little boy squeezes through the gates, there is a loud ringing cheer from the front of the circus.

\-----

The circus is alive and buzzing and wonderful, but Fitz wanders through the tents half-aware, looking down at his watch and counting down until midnight.

He has been taking on more responsibility for the circus with little coercion, Coulson realising that his contributions were quite good. The lighting ceremony was entirely Fitz's idea, with no need to reveal the details to anyone attending a midnight meeting.

The fire was thought to be real by some and a hologram by others--Fitz is dimly aware that many of the performers believe it to be a hologram as they are his specialty--he lets them believe whatever they want to. In reality, the flames are another illusion, though a microchip was surreptitiously placed into the cauldron prior to the display, one that contained a binding charm that even he was unsure would work. He has never attempted something of this scale before, but the bonfire can serve as his connection to the circus.

He needed a stronger link to it so he could compete without revealing himself, without being constantly present at the circus like Jemma was.

Fitz waits at the front of the crowd, appearing like another patron. No one notices him and when the flames turn white, he closes his eyes.

\-----

Jemma thinks that she might be okay with performing now.

She expected to feel like a poor imitation of her mother's work, of Richard's teachings, but she finds herself enjoying the far more intimate space of her own tent. The audience is small so each person remains distinct rather than blending into a giant, shadowy mess, so she can gauge her audience's reactions and choose what they might like to see next. Each performance becomes unique and she is allowed to take time to herself between shows whenever she chooses as long as she makes a note of it on the sign outside her tent.

Shortly before midnight, she decides she would like to see the lighting ceremony and lets her hair fade to its natural lighter hue and turns her jacket maroon, but as she winds through what the performers call backstage despite the distinct lack of a stage, she gets temporarily lost.

There is a portion of the gate close to a forest outside and Jemma spies an unfamiliar young face peeking around currently unoccupied tents and she frowns, distracted.

A loud cheer echoes from what must be the ceremony but before she can react, something shifts in the atmosphere of the circus and it pushes and pulls at her, causing her to shiver so violently that she almost loses her footing.

"Are you all right?" a voice says from behind her, and she turns to see Qiaolian standing there, her arms held behind her back. There is a too-knowing gleam in her eyes that is becoming more and more familiar to Jemma and she manages to shake her head slightly.

"No," she starts, catching her breath. "No, I'm fine. But thank you."

Qiaolian says nothing as she walks away, but Jemma thinks that she knows exactly what happened. Chills still run down the illusionist's spine, causing goosebumps to prickle at her skin. She doesn't know who her opponent is, but a move has just been made—it feels as though the entire circus is now contained in an invisible, breathable bubble.

She goes searching for the unfamiliar face again and when she rounds the next tent, she nearly runs into _two_ unfamiliar faces.

The two children are wide-eyed and frozen with terror, so she smiles, crouching down. "Hello, I don't think you're supposed to be here, but I won't tell anyone." Her eyes flit from one face to the other and they both look guilty and seemingly ready for punishment. "You won't be in trouble, I promise. My name is Jemma. What are yours?" Though she is no longer smiling, she makes sure to appear friendly.

The girl casts a sidelong glance at her friend before looking at Jemma with a tentatively hopeful stare. "My name is Callie."

The boy steps up, looking defiant. "I'm Seth."

She furrows her brows, tilting her head as she regards them. "If you don't mind me asking, how old are you?"

Their hands tighten in each other's grasp. "F-five," Callie replies, stuttering.

Jemma considers the two of them for a moment. They must be orphans or they would hardly be wandering around in the middle of the night, and they look suspicious of everything. She smiles before speaking again. "It's nice to meet you, Seth, Callie. Would you like to stay at the circus?"

\-----

Skye is getting bored of staying backstage where she can safely conduct her holograph fortune-telling act, and when there is a lack of visitors trailing into the tent, she decides to take a look around. She finds Fitz standing just outside of a tent that she knows to be the acrobats and she nudges his shoulder with hers. He appears startled, focused on something far away. "So, how's it going?"

He shrugs. "I think the binding must have worked. Something feels different, like everything is connected to each other and to me, but I don't know if it's close to the scale that I need it to be." Fitz falls silent, staring at the white fabric for another minute before turning to his friend. "Sorry, I should have asked you the same. How are you enjoying opening night?"

She gives a noncommittal shrug back, turning toward the patrons who don't seem to notice the two of them standing there. "It's been eventful. There aren't a ton of people who come into my tent, but it's good practice for my card reading." He makes a noise that she takes to mean that he's listening but only just. "Have you gone to see the illusionist's tent yet?"

Fitz looks up at the sky and gives an almost imperceptible sigh. "No. I don't think I will tonight."

She squints at him before turning around. "Suit yourself. I'm going to find this one living statue who is really good at his job until he notices that I'm staring at him. Or maybe that's just what I think is happening. It's cute but mostly hilarious." She half-skips away and Fitz barely acknowledges her, too lost in what his next possible moves must be.

It takes another ten minutes before he finally moves away from the acrobatics tent to find Coulson, who is checking every minute detail possible and making notes about what needs to be fixed before the next night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ward got the smallest of mentions in this chapter and if you caught it, good for you.


	6. a series of collaborations

The midnight meetings are fewer and far between now that the circus is running properly, gaining self-sufficiency like an adolescent pushed into the world. The original conspirators still gather from time to time, notably when the circus is somewhere close by.

Beth does not attend, despite the standing invitation. Her continued absence frustrates Fitz, as the meetings were the only opportunities presented to him where he could talk to her.

When a year passes, both too slowly and too quickly all at once, without a single sighting of a woman dressed in charcoal, Fitz decides to leave her a message that only she will be able to read, calling her.

The webpage remains inaccessible to everyone, though he types his code into it and publishes it. She appears hours later, remaining outside the flat. "Yes?"

"How am I doing? In the challenge, I mean."

Beth stares at him, her expression unreadable. "Your work is enough," she says, and Fitz lets out an irritated huff.

"How long is this supposed to go on? We're just going to keep manipulating the circus forever?"

"You display the best of what you have to offer and your opponent does the same. It continues until there is a victor--simple, really."

He frowns. "I don't exactly understand the rules."

Beth turns and Fitz nearly shouts in frustration when she speaks again. "You don't need to understand the rules, just follow them."

He stares down the hallway for some time after she leaves.

\-----

**CAIRO, EGYPT**

At high noon, the circus is in a state of rest. Jemma, though nocturnal most of the time, frequently has trouble sleeping so she stands in front of the Carousel, watching as the black, white, and silver creatures float past, completely unsuspended.

"This is rather grotesque," a voice says, and she makes a dismissive noise. "I don't know why you needed to involve the architect."

She sighs. "It's a popular attraction and quite difficult to maintain, Richard, I don't know why you need to glare at it so much. And he's an _engineer_ , not an architect. Fury knows a little of what is happening, but only as much as he needs to. He likes pushing boundaries so I just offered to push them further." Jemma turns to Richard, a pensive look on her face. "You're going to tell me this is cheating."

He continues glaring. "I should have stopped you, but I'm rather indisposed."

She rolls her eyes. "That's not my fault. You did it to yourself. Besides, utilising an engineer worked out well--he designed it and I simply made it work without some of the typically necessary parts. He suggested magnets and manipulating the electrical fields, but..." She waves her hand, an explanation not even remotely needed. "There's already loads of collaboration happening in the circus, so why shouldn't I join in and take advantage?" The carousel runs in more than a simple circle, and though the creatures are entirely inanimate in appearance, Jemma has added details here and there to make them appear as though they're breathing. She is proud of her work but her pride flickers under her mentor's disapproval.

Richard turns to look at her and she can only see the outline of a frown. He is all but a ghost now, thanks to his attempts at a trick that didn't go as planned, and he waves a transparent hand, the sunlight through the canvas just barely lighting up his skin. "Collaboration will only drag you down. What if you had accidentally chosen to work with your opponent? It would have given them a great advantage."

Jemma blinks. "Can't you just tell me who it might be?" He shakes his head. "Why not? My opponent probably knows who I am, right?"

"Yes, unless your opponent is incredibly thick, which is unlikely. Beth has always chosen clever students. Look, none of this matters. You shouldn't be influenced by your opponent, and you certainly shouldn't be _collaborating_."

She throws her hands into the air. "How can any of this be judged? I erect one tent, my opponent brings up another. What is the system on which this will be graded? It feels like a poorly planned exam! How can I succeed if you don't tell me the rules?"

The inanimate creatures begin rustling, soft sounds of roars and cries echoing in the empty tent. Richard gives her a withering stare and Jemma stops, furrowing her brows. "All of that is inconsequential. You know all that you need to know--just prove yourself to be better." She opens her mouth and he turns away. "Stop asking questions."

She stares at the space previously occupied by a ghost, hate radiating from her until one of the animals lets out a shriek and she stills.

\-----

Skye's emails come infrequently and without much detail. Fitz knows he should be thankful she has time to send anything at all, as she should be rightfully busy with her own tent, but he tears through the new mail in his inbox too quickly, before he even fully wakes up in the morning. She talks about how they travel by plane and the occasional train, but he knows that must be inaccurate to some degree. The circus is described in off-hand detail, though new tents are spoken of in more words, often in reckless abandon. He craves more information, needs to immerse himself in them but he can't expect anything close to what he wants.

What's worse is that there is very little about _her_. He knows that Skye has attended the show called _Feats of Illustrious Illusion_ , but she has only gone once so as not to draw suspicion. Skye doesn't even use her name, another precaution they agreed upon before the circus began. What Skye doesn't know is that Fitz wants to know everything about the woman everyone calls the illusionist. What she does in her free time, how the audience interacts with her, how she takes her tea, who she speaks to most whilst not performing.

Instead, he reads the words over and over again until they sear themselves into his every thought.

\-----

**PRAGUE, CZECH REPUBLIC  
TWO YEARS LATER**

The appearance of a new tent is so rare that Jemma seriously considers cancelling her performances in order to go exploring, but she resists, waiting until a few hours before dawn when she is finished for the night. The sign only shows a picture of three gears, interlocked and spinning, and her curiosity gets the best of her as she enters.

Her first thought is that the tent is strangely lit, but then she notices the strings of fairy lights hanging from the rafters and the way the light glints off what appears to be metal. She squints until her eyes adjust and when they finally do, she gasps, the sound echoing dimly around the tent.

She stands amidst a forest made entirely of metal in shades of grey and black. The trees glint in the dim light and when she steps into what appears to be a clearing, the lights morph into something that resembles sunlight and suddenly she cannot tell that she stands amidst a tent in a circus. The light warms her skin and she smiles when she reaches out to rest her hand on a tree, roughened and grooved to feel like a real tree. A leaf falls from somewhere above her head and she reaches out to catch it, the split realisation hitting her that if everything is made of metal, it will hurt—it doesn't. Though the leaf is very much made of the same stuff, it is etched out and lighter than a real leaf, and the edges are not sharp.

Jemma reaches down to pick a wildflower from the ground, running her fingers across the curled petals. It seems to bend under her touch and when she looks back down, another flower has taken its place. She feels dizzy just thinking about how much concentration it would take to keep a display like this thriving and she is suddenly wary of how strong her opponent really is. There are no sharp edges despite the inherent dangers of metalworking, and even with the variance in finish to mimic a real forest, it is still distinctly metallic, unique in its beauty.

She closes her eyes and wills her uneasy thoughts away, tucking the daisy behind her ear. It is peaceful in the middle of this tent and her worries are ebbing. She doesn't leave the tent until well past dawn when all the visitors have left and the rest of the circus is sleeping.

It isn't until she returns backstage that she realises the flower has vanished.

\-----

**KYOTO, JAPAN  
ONE YEAR LATER**

The little orphan children are now as much a part of the circus as the tents themselves. The performers take turns watching over Seth and Callie, walking with them around the circus until they are familiar with it. It becomes a part of them as much as their bones are. They slowly learn to like the performers, piecing together a trust that they never had in others before, though they markedly prefer the company of the illusionist.

Jemma has no shows for the next hour and a half, so she volunteers to take the children from Qiaolian. She rarely has the time to watch them, anyway, and she rather enjoys the break from performing. Not a single patron recognises her outside of her tent, not when she dons a blue blazer and brown shoes and lets her hair return to its natural colour. When she walks around with Seth and Callie, she is rather sure anyone who does notice her believes she is a babysitter taking her charges to the circus.

They start in the metal forest tent, and though Jemma is content to meander her way around the trees and watch the way the artificial sunlight trickles through the golden leaves, the children are already waiting at the exit, far ahead of her and trying to escape boredom by proclaiming that they would like to go on one of the rides or get some food. Jemma only smiles and obliges, taking them to the flying swings. Callie bounces on the balls of her feet with excitement, but Seth frowns and Jemma rests one knee on the floor, bringing herself to his eye level. "What's wrong, darling?"

Seth looks up at the sky, where patrons are shouting with delight as they fly around in circles. "They're spinning too fast and I'm already dizzy."

It is Jemma's turn to frown. "You've been on this ride before, Seth. What's wrong?"

He shakes his head violently. "Not the ride. People spinning on a wood floor. You're there, too, but you leave and there's someone else," he adds as an afterthought, tilting his head back down to look at her.

Jemma watches his face for a few moments. "Whatever you're seeing, love, has it already happened?" He shakes his head. "Where are you seeing this?"

He points up. "The stars, but only sometimes. They're confusing." He pauses again and looks at Callie, who is still fluttering with excitement, though she has stopped bouncing. "Callie sees things on people."

Jemma turns to Callie, who has turned around, her head tilted to one side at the sound of their conversation. "And what do you see, Callie?"

The girl shrugs, her arms swinging at her sides. "Nothing important, I think. Places they've been and things they've done."

Jemma considers this for a moment. Children are fanciful and Seth and Callie have played many games with her before, but she can tell this isn't a game. "What do you see on me?" she asks, and Callie's attention snaps toward her.

"Paper that you keep setting on fire. A woman who looks like you reading from a book. A great big raven that isn't entirely black... And a ghost man who follows you—" Callie's eyes go unfocused for a moment before she frowns at Jemma. "I don't see anything anymore. Did you make it go away? How did you do that?" Her annoyance is replaced by curiosity and Jemma merely smiles, holding a finger to her lips.

"A magician never reveals her secrets," she whispers conspiratorially before standing again. She looks toward the front of the circus, where a white glow casts shadows of the tents and patrons onto the ground. The bonfire has been glowing since opening night and has never gone out, even when the circus is travelling from place to place. It always remains lit, safely contained within its cauldron. She recalls the children's recounting of their arrival, with Callie sneaking past the gates just before the lighting ceremony and Seth following shortly after.

The bonfire was a precedent, then, something that changed the course of the circus and all people involved with it, including the children, not wholly members of the troupe but not patrons. One arriving before the bonfire and one arriving after. She looks back down at the pair of them, who are both looking at her, curious, expectant. "Seth, if you see anything in the stars that you think might be important, will you promise to tell me?"

He nods. "I promise. Cross my heart."

Jemma looks around to make sure none of the patrons are watching, and she reaches behind Callie's ear to pull out two matching pins in gold and red before handing one to each of them. She should keep a careful eye over them and nurture their talents, even though she knows that getting attached to anyone is a bad idea if Richard has anything to say about it. "Would you two like to learn how to do tricks like that? You have to keep it a secret, though."

They both nod vigorously and Jemma smiles.

\-----

**CAPE TOWN, SOUTH AFRICA**

Fitz pushes into the tent rather unceremoniously to see the projection of Skye's face, looking almost comically shocked. "Um, hi to you, too?" her voice says, echoing from somewhere above his head. He knows he should have gone to her tent backstage but he is so harried that he isn't thinking properly.

"This one's new. Why didn't you tell me about this?" He turns his tablet around in his hands and Skye has to squint to make out what it is. It's a drawing of a tree that looks somewhat like the ones she has seen from his programs and sketches, but it isn't composed of symbols.

"Oh, the Tree of Wishes," she exclaims, understanding. "To be fair, I thought you might've come up with it, but now that I think about it... You're not really one for living displays, are you?" Fitz stays silent and she takes that as his agreement. "It's kind of cool, actually. The candles aren't really candles, but there's some sort of effect that makes it look like the wax is dripping, and the flames are electric. You pick up one candle and tap it to a new one and it lights, and you place it on the tree. Old wishes lighting new wishes."

He sighs, rubbing at his temple with his free hand and placing the tablet down on the table. "Listen, it's one of hers. I don't know how to explain it—it's like tugging at the threads in a cloth and knowing the work isn't yours." She can see the frustration written in his features and she tries not to laugh. "And she probably knows which tents are mine." Something crosses his face, a fleeting expression of startled pleasure that is quickly replaced by the anxiety that shows in the twitch of his fingers, but she doesn't mention noticing.

"Well, now that you know, you can do whatever the hell you want with it." She frowns, focusing on threads of memory, of old conversations. "I still don't understand how your game works."

Fitz shakes his head. "I can't change anything she's done or use anything of hers for my own gain. Everything has to stay separate—I can't just take her pieces off of the board. She makes a move, and then I make a move."

Skye yawns theatrically. "Look, Fitz, if you use another chess metaphor, I'm going to fall asleep on you. Besides, how is anyone supposed to win if you're just supposed to keep making moves against each other?"

He considers this for a moment. "It's like a scale. She creates a tent, so the scales are tipped in her favour. I create a tent, and the scales are tipped in mine. Or even. I haven't quite figured that out myself, but I'm starting to."

She remains silent for longer than either person is used to. She thinks the scales will break if this is allowed to continue for too long. "And how long is the circus supposed to last?"

"I don't know," he admits, looking down at the floor. "As long as it is deemed necessary, I guess." He grabs his tablet from the table's surface, staring at the drawing. "That tree is alive. I don't know how she's doing it—the carousel has floating animals that can't simply be explained by magnetic fields, and the animals _breathe_. I heard one of the tigers growling when I walked past." He seems to be muttering to himself more than to her and Skye doesn't know if she's meant to respond. "Does she still perform at half past?"

"Yes. Are you sure going to see her show is a good idea? What if she sees you?"

He smiles then. "She won't recognise me." Just before he exits the tent entirely, he turns back. "Skye, please tell me if a new tent appears, even if you think it's mine. It's really important that I know."

When he leaves, she switches off her screen for a few minutes, reaching for her deck. She is momentarily thankful that the hologram allows her to create a virtual deck to use instead of the worn out one she carries. She draws one card, the angel on it confirming her suspicions, and she concentrates harder than she has ever done in her lessons, drawing up words of determination and focus. _This better work_ , she thinks, and the card is never returned to the deck.

\-----

**CHICAGO, ILLINOIS, USA**

Someone tells Triplett about the wandering circus that only performs at night. It comes up in conversation because the man says it reminds him of Trip's work, nearly defying physical norms. So when the circus arrives only a few miles from him, he closes the shop early and decides to explore. He is absolutely baffled to see his clock set in front of the circus, just beyond the gates, but the pieces start to come together, a connection to this strange showcase forming.

He wanders the circus from tent to tent and becomes captivated, lost in several tents for hours until dawn approaches far too quickly, and when he leaves, he returns home to write down every detail to the best of his recollection so he will never forget it. He returns night after night until one day the circus is no longer there, gone as quickly as it came.

Triplett writes several journal articles about the circus, taking excerpts from his own recounts. Each article is published online and gets translated into several languages for all lovers of the circus all around the world, and he receives numerous emails regarding the circus. (He becomes the one who establishes a dress code for the most loyal of fans: all black and white to match the circus, with one red accent to set them apart.) One catches his eye with its astounding level of detail, more so than he can manage, and descriptions of his clock that would require staring at it for hours.

He reads the email several times before composing a reply. _To: Jemma Simmons_.

\-----

**NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK, USA  
TWO YEARS LATER**

The circus arrives late one evening, setting itself up as it has done for years. Jemma knows that everyone assumes there are stage hands to help. That was the case at first, but now she has a firm grasp on it, setting up tents and not disturbing anything that doesn't require disturbing. It means an evening off, so when Qiaolian shows up at her tent to beckon her to leave her books, she nearly declines but is instead intrigued.

They arrive at the front of a townhouse and she laughs, delighted. "You could have told me where we were going."

Qiaolian raises an eyebrow, one corner of her mouth turning up. "I thought the surprise might be welcome." As they enter, Jemma remembers the first time she visited Coulson's place during the reception celebrating the circus' opening as she is introduced to everyone. Maria Hill pretends they are mere acquaintances and she and Jemma share a conspiratorial smile.

It isn't until an hour later that Jemma spies a movement in the shadows that she excuses herself from the gathering, feeling fury rising in her chest as she exits the front room and moves toward the hall. "Can't I have a single night away from the circus without you following me?" she hisses, moving into the library to avoid the rest of the guests.

"This is a waste of time," Richard replies without acknowledging her question. "And it will make you lose your focus."

She just barely avoids bursting into angry laughter. "I have plenty of focus, Richard. I control a huge part of the circus, and everyone in that room helped to build the circus from the ground up. I think it's rather helpful if I get to know them better so I have a better understanding of the circus as a whole."

"That's... fair, I suppose," he says, though Jemma is certain that he's unhappy. She opens her mouth to speak when there is a noise from behind her and she whirls around, startled.

"Miss Simmons?" Coulson's assistant Leo Fitz stands at the doorway, looking uncertain. "Qiaolian asked if I could find you."

She gives him a smile, glancing at the space where Richard stood a moment ago only to find that he is no longer there. "I'm so sorry. Fitz, is it?" He nods, and she makes a mental note of it. "And please, call me Jemma. I was just completely sidetracked by the library and I thought no one would notice that I wandered off."

"I'm sure they would, though Qiaolian seems to be exceptionally observant. But the library has distracted me many times, as well, so I understand your preoccupation."

They return to the front room and Fitz seems to fade into the background once more for the rest of the evening.

\-----

**WASHINGTON, D.C., USA  
ONE YEAR LATER**

Though the office looks neat, Nick Fury is still staring at his computer, trying to sort through the files as he goes through one external drive after the other when there is a knock on the door. "Come in," he calls, and he looks at the clock only to note that his appointment time has not yet passed.

"Sorry, I'm early. I'm almost never early," Fitz says, looking rather sheepish as he enters the room. "I wanted to speak with you in person as I don't think emails would be appropriate."

He grins. "Not a problem. And no emails could contain the blueprints anyway. There's too many of them and they're all huge files. Let me put them onto a flash drive for you."

The door closes behind Fitz, untouched. "Mr. Fury, if you don't mind me asking... How much do you know?"

Nick freezes for a moment before looking up at the young man standing in front of him. The pause becomes too long, though Coulson's assistant does not seem to want to elaborate. He scrutinises his expression. "Know about what?"

Fitz's hands twitch at his sides. "How much has Simmons told you?"

He pushes away from her desk to stand, resting her hands against the surface of the desk. "So _you're_ her opponent," he says, shaking his head with a smile on his face as Fitz nods. "Well, I'll be damned. She hasn't told me a whole lot, only that it's a competition of sorts. I wouldn't have believed her if she didn't show me the way she turns her books into birds." He straightens, taking the flash drive from the USB port and hands it to Fitz, who pockets it. "Most stage magicians use engineers to make their magic appear more than parlor tricks, but since she's not a typical magician, I guess I'm not a typical engineer. I help make her tents appear more believable—grounding, is the term we've settled on."

Fitz stares at him, digesting this information for a moment. "You're a magician in your own right, it seems." He pauses, looking down at the floor. "I could make you forget this conversation."

Nick laughs. "There's no need for that. I won't tell anyone or take sides. I'm Switzerland in this little war," he jokes, crossing her arms over her chest. "Did you need my assistance on something?"

He nods. "It's a bit more complicated than, say, the Carousel."

\-----

Fury grins when he opens the email from Jemma. He had thought that perhaps the illusionist would be upset that he knew the identity of her opponent, but the email only says _May I add to it?_

He writes back to say that it was meant to be built upon by both sides. He cannot begin to imagine the possibilities.

\-----

Jemma grins as she walks through a field of wildflowers that appear to be made of glass, brushing her hands against the cool petals. She finds one of the several doors hidden, this one behind a particularly tall patch of grass, and walks into a room of snow. The flakes fall and stay in her hair without melting, and when she shivers, it isn't so much due to the cold as it is to sheer wonder.

The next room has a reconstructed dinosaur skeleton, though it does not appear to be made of bone. She runs her hands across its foot to find that it is made of magnetite. "This is not what you're supposed to be doing," a voice says from behind her, and the joy she feels about to burst within her pops like a deflated balloon. "You're supposed to be competing, not forcing this reprobate collaboration."

"It's fun," she says, tense with irritation. "And the Labyrinth isn't really a collaboration, is it? I don't know with whom I'm even working with or against here. It's still a competition, but isn't it simpler to see it in a single tent? How are you to judge which one of us is superior? Which is better, a room filled with glass flora or a room with a gigantic stone fossil? Do you even know which rooms are my work and which are my opponent's?" She turns away from the source of his voice and walks into another room.

\-----

Fitz sits in his flat, compiling his program and watching the projections change when Jemma adds a room. He connects each room, intertwining their work, waiting for her response.


	7. a deliberate collision of forces

**NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK, USA  
THREE YEARS LATER**

The rain is pouring when Jemma sneaks out of the circus. Their night of performances is cancelled due to the weather, and though the performers have decided to host a party, Jemma doesn't feel quite like socialising tonight.

She arrives at a small cafe just outside of the city, resting her umbrella at the front door where a pile of dripping umbrellas has already collected. She remains entirely dry, though no one notices this peculiarity as she glances around for an empty table, of which there are none, but she spies Skye sitting at a table, typing away at a laptop. The fortune teller has always appeared to know more than she lets on, much like Qiaolian. Even though Jemma considers Skye a friend, it makes her far too wary.

"Care for some company?" she asks, stopping in front of the table. Skye looks up, nearly jumping in her seat, but she nods and shifts her computer further off of the table.

"Go right ahead," she says, and Jemma sits down. "Managed to get away, huh? I literally just missed the rain, but now it's like someone's dumping buckets from the sky. I was supposed to be meeting a friend, but it'll be a miracle if they show up now."

Jemma chuckles, shaking out her sleeves. "I wouldn't blame them one bit. Did you pop into the party at all?"

Skye shrugs, closing her laptop and tucking it away into her bag. "For a few minutes. Seth and Callie were busy chasing baby animals around the tent and everyone else was distracted, so I slipped out. Did you make it rain so you could get the night off?"

Jemma grins, looking around the room. The back of her neck is prickling as though someone is watching. "Not quite, although even if the idea crossed my mind, I'd prefer not a storm of this caliber." She looks back at Skye, her brows furrowed. Skye gives her a curious look. "Sorry. I could swear someone was watching us."

"Maybe someone recognised you," Skye whispers conspiratorially, and Jemma laughs. With her hair back to its natural honey rather than black like her favourite raven's feathers, it's difficult to imagine anyone recognising her with cursory glances. "I'm not sure how no one's recognised me yet. I mean, sure, the hologram is a little different from what I actually look like, but I've read cards for at least five or six people in this room and no one's even done a double take."

Jemma shrugs. "Do you have your cards with you now? Because if it isn't too much to ask, I'd like to ask you for a reading."

Skye stares at her with her mouth open. "Wow, that's a first. I don't think you've ever asked me to read for you for the entire duration of the circus."

Jemma looks around the room once more, unable to shake the feeling of someone watching, even with her illusion of an invisible curtain in place. "As strange as it seems coming from the mouth of an illusionist, I have difficulty in wanting to know what my future holds, but tonight I'm rather curious."

Skye raises her eyebrows and purses her lips to one side before pulling out her deck. "Curiosity killed the cat, you know," she jokes as she shuffles the cards.

"What doesn't kill you makes you stronger," Jemma counters. "You only have 77 cards there."

Skye nearly drops half the deck but manages to catch herself. She splits the deck into thirds. "One of them is elsewhere for the time being," she replies, and Jemma doesn't push further. "Pick one." Jemma stares at the three piles for a few moments before tapping the one on the left. Skye stacks the piles back together, keeping the left one on top and dealing the cards. There is no clear message yet, cups and swords and _The Priestess_. It isn't until she draws _The Magician_ that it becomes clearer. She tries to hide her grin. _God, finally,_ , she thinks, and she begins to translate.

"You carry a lot of baggage with you. A heavy heart, things you've lost, but you're moving toward change and discovery. There are outside influences that are pushing you forward." Jemma says nothing, alternating her glances between Skye and the cards. "You're... Okay, it's not exactly like fighting, but there's some sort of conflict, a competition maybe, with something unseen. Something hidden in the shadows, hidden from you."

Jemma nods, an enigmatic smile on her face.

Skye places another card down. "But it'll be revealed soon."

Jemma's spine straightens even more, one eyebrow raised. "How soon?"

"Well, I can't give you a specific time since the cards are way too vague, but it's really close. Almost immediate, I think," she says, pulling the Two of Cups. "There's a lot of emotion. Deep emotion but you've barely scratched the surface and I think it's waiting to pull you under." Jemma frowns as Skye continues. "I don't think it's good or bad, just... There, and it's intense." She sighs, pushing the cards around. "It's weird and contradictory. Love and loss simultaneously." She looks up to see Jemma lost in thought, not entirely seeing the cards. "I'm sorry I can't give you a better interpretation. Sometimes a new meaning comes to me later, and these are so conflicting that there are probably tons of ways to read them." She gestures to the card, pursing her lips slightly.

Jemma smiles then, relaxing a bit in her seat as she rests her hands around her neck, elbows brought in toward her chest. "No need to apologise, Skye. Thank you very much for reading for me." She changes the subject and they stay at the table, cards untouched, for some time until Jemma insists that she returns to the circus. "I can handle the rain just fine, but I've taken up so much of your time and you're still waiting for someone. I'm so sorry. I'll see you back at the circus?"

Skye waves in Jemma's direction before looking back down at the cards. She can never lie about the cards, though she was purposefully vague toward Jemma. The competition is interlaced with everything--past, present, and future. The cards seem to represent the circus itself rather than Jemma specifically, but the details are overwhelming and Skye decides to shuffle the cards again. _The Magician_ keeps floating to the top and she shakes her head, drawing her phone from her pocket.

 _It's about time_ , she sends, tucking the phone back into her pocket without waiting for a response.

\-----

Jemma searches for her umbrella at the door but doesn't find it amidst the number of similar, plain black umbrellas. She knows it by the charm she has placed on it, rather like a fingerprint. She panics slightly, wringing her hands as she steps out underneath the awning in front of the door before there's a tap on her shoulder and she looks up to see Fitz standing there, her umbrella in one hand and the other running through his own soaking wet hair. "Sorry, but I think I have your umbrella."

She has never seen Coulson's assistant outside of the circus or some property of Coulson's. Jemma blinks rapidly as the pieces begin to come together, a puzzle she has been trying to solve since the circus started and long before that, too. She remembers his peculiar behaviour at her audition, years of glances and occasional comments that she dismissed as common courtesy and mild flirtation, the way that he fades into the background too easily. He is rather good at playing the part of the assistant who is helpful but doesn't intrude, someone who was hiding in plain sight.

She starts laughing, the sound both harmonic and dissonant with the sound of the rain. Fitz stares at her, alarm rising to his features, opening his mouth to speak when she sticks out her hand. "Sorry, it's just... It's a pleasure to really, truly meet you," she says, beaming.

He takes her hand, the smile returning to his face. "I think we should have a conversation. Are you free right now?"

She considers this for a moment, but curiosity gets the best of her. "Perhaps it would be best. Do you mind if we use my umbrella?" He shakes his head and takes it from her, opening it up and holding it over her head before ducking under it himself. She is certain he realised it was her umbrella as soon as he opened it in the street, if he didn't pick it up on purpose--the rain seems to bounce off of them if it is blown in their direction, and it is several degrees warmer than it should be. The hem of her trousers slowly fades from black to dark blue as they dry and she extends the courtesy to Fitz, as well, drying his clothing without a word.

He looks startled but thankful as he looks down at the sleeve of his free arm. "I don't suppose you could do my hair," he jokes, marvelling at the novelty of staying dry in this weather. "I never would've thought to enchant my umbrella."

Jemma laughs. "I've lived in London for a great deal of my life. Waterproofing my umbrella was an immediate necessity." She pauses, looking thoughtful as she stared out into the deluge. "Why did you bring it back?" she asks, a hundred questions remaining unspoken. _Why did you choose to reveal yourself tonight?_

He shrugs, shoving his free hand into his coat pocket. "I was tired of hiding from you. I've known you were my opponent for years and it seems unfair that you didn’t know who I am." The rest of the thankfully brief walk is made in silence.

When they enter his flat, he shakes the water from his hair in the hall outside, rather like a dog, and follows Jemma inside. She takes tentative steps toward the front room. "Make yourself comfortable," he says, hanging up his coat on the wall before heading into the kitchen. "Would you like anything to drink, tea, maybe?"

She turns to him with a smile. "Tea would be wonderful, thank you. No milk or sugar," she adds, sitting down on an armchair. He sets the kettle on the stove and turns toward her, his gaze intense though genuine and she fights the blush that rises to her cheeks. One of the light bulbs starts to flicker and he waves a hand at it. It glows, consistent and unerring.

"What do you call it?"

"Manipulation, though my brand of magic seems to be a bit different than yours. Charming, maybe? You seem to charm a great deal of people. Skye and Coulson, among others."

He frowns. "How did you know about Skye?"

She scoffs. "Oh, please. Skye, while a great friend who is hell-bent on breaking me out of my shell--her words, not mine--is not exactly the most subtle of people. I've caught her staring at me like I was a particularly difficult maths problem, and for some time I thought she was my opponent." She pauses, squinting at his face. "You know, you're very good at distorting perception, but you don't have to put on a face for me."

Fitz looks startled, but the façade slowly fades, though it is subtle enough that it took her this long to realise what was wrong. The beard disappears and his eyes lighten, though they are as vibrant as the strangely dark shade they were before. "How?" he asks, his brow furrowing, but before she can answer, the kettle goes off and he jumps, turning to steep their tea. She stands and goes to join him in the kitchen, carefully watching his face.

"I've spent most of my life being able to physically manipulate my appearance," she starts, and he looks up as she changes her hair to the black shade of her circus persona and then back to her natural light brown. "I'd like to think I'm good enough to realise when an illusion is set over what's real." He moves toward the fridge to grab milk for his tea. "I've seen you at my shows like this, though I've never really put two and two together. It sounds awfully stupid of me now."

"Do you remember all of your audiences?" he asks, staring at her with increased intensity and she wills the blush away from her cheeks.

"No, not always. There's a fair few too many people, but I remember the ones who look at me the way you do." She looks down at the floor for a moment before looking back up. His eyebrow is raised. "It's as though you don't know if you're afraid of me or if you want to kiss me."

"I'm not afraid of you." He looks away only to remove the tea bags and hands her a mug. When she reaches a hand up to take it, chewing her lip all the while, her fingers brush against his hand and the reaction is immediate. The air becomes charged and the peculiar sensation travelling up Fitz's arm, intense and intimate, causes him to gasp. Jemma drops the mug and it shatters against the tiles, spilling hot tea down her leg as she stumbles back.

Before Fitz can react, the mug is whole again, floating in the air with tea steaming away. Jemma crouches down and rolls up one leg of her jeans to note the already patchy red burn and closes her eyes, rearranging and building until her skin is whole and healthy. She stands up, flexing her leg as gracefully as a ballet dancer before she takes the floating mug. "Oh, Fitz, I'm sorry. It's just--I'm particularly sensitive to energy and anyone who can do what we do has an overabundance of it. I'm not quite used to you, yet."

"Yet," he repeats, a goofy grin on his face, and she is incredibly thankful that she can keep this damn blush down. "I see what you mean by physical manipulation," he says, changing the subject with a nod at her leg.

She struggles to catch her breath still, nodding once. To give herself focus, she eyes a page of last week's newspaper, levitating it several feet away from the two of them. It tears in half, then repeats the action twice more until there are eight pieces that float toward her. She spreads them out and waves her hand, shuffling them until there are four on either side of her and she taps each set, effectively creating two separate pages, and when she grabs them from the air, they are no longer covered in an article but in comic strips. "I have what my mentor calls natural talent as I was born able to affect my surroundings--I break things far too easily. Animate objects were much more difficult."

He takes the pages from her and faces her, holding his own mug with both hands. "Healing is obviously a talent of yours."

Jemma grins. "I was exceptionally curious and spent many days falling just to see what I could repair. My mother was less fond of my methods, though she indulged me in practice, but I never told her about healing my own injuries. Richard didn't care much, though he did frown if I broke entire rooms and let myself get hurt in the process just to see how much I could do at once."

Fitz looks very somber as he gazes at her. "I'm suddenly very glad our challenge isn't physical. I'm pretty sure I'd lose. D'you think you could change anything about me?"

She glances up at him, brows furrowing. "Your hair, maybe your voice. I would've dried off your hair whilst we were walking, but you'd need to consent, and true consent is not a common thing. I certainly couldn't heal any of your injuries. I'm intimately familiar with how I'm put together, but that familiarity doesn't extend to others, unfortunately. My atoms are inherently different from your atoms, though maybe they weren't separated eons ago."

He smiles. "Don't trust atoms, they make up everything." She scoffs at his joke but the smile creeping onto her face reveals her true feelings. "I'm sure you could do it with some practice."

Jemma smiles before moving away from the kitchen and toward the front room. "Well, now that you've seen my performance and what I can do otherwise, I think it's only fair that you show me."

He walks up behind her and almost immediately, the room becomes a forest not unlike the metal one of which she is so fond, though everything is living and breathing. She sees birds flying amidst the foliage, feels the sunlight against her skin. A few animal calls echo and she thinks she might hear a monkey. Everything feels so real and she turns around to face him. "You're placing this image in my mind, aren't you? Which means it could be stopped." She pauses, watching him for a few more moments, though her focus is momentarily broken by a butterfly floating past her. "You can't do this with the circus."

Fitz shrugs. "It's not a perfect method, but you could definitely block it. The circus is usually too far for me to manage something like this, which is why I have the bonfire."

She laughs, the sound not entirely matching her size and she turns to press her hand against the bark of a tree. "I noticed there was something strange about it right away. Everyone says it's a transparent screen, but I know there's nothing there. It offers you some portion of control, yes? It makes my job easier." He laughs, confirming her suspicions. "They call me the illusionist. You'd be far more suited to that title."

They spend the better part of the evening discussing their craft and when Jemma leaves late into the night, there are too many emotions knotting together.

\-----

 _To: Fitz  
From: Jemma_  
How are you keeping everyone from aging?

 _To: Jemma  
From: Fitz_  
Very carefully. They _are_ aging, just at a very slow pace.

 _To: Fitz  
From: Jemma_  
Ahh, everyone but Seth and Callie. They're quite the exception.

 _To: Jemma  
From: Fitz_  
Good or bad?

 _To: Fitz  
From: Jemma_  
We'll see.


	8. restless discoveries

**BUENOS AIRES, ARGENTINA  
TWO YEARS LATER**

Although the circus itself is entirely monochromatic, the backstage area is a different story. Whatever colour might have been missing in the performance space has leeched into the living quarters, those of the children most of all. Seth and Callie, though both unassuming in appearance, prefer to keep their living quarters a blaze of colours; crimson and gold and indigo amongst others. Now that they're older, they are allowed their own spot out on the paths between tents, performing tricks with puppies and kittens and two rabbits, jumping through hoops and performing leaps. (Seth swears that they've been old enough to have their own act since they were nine, but even Jemma couldn't convince the rest of the circus.)

Someone once suggested that they be sent off to a boarding school so they could receive a proper education, but Qiaolian, in a rare display of blazing determination, made the decision that they would stay with the circus as it was far more valuable to learn what they can from an eclectic group of performers, each with their own area of expertise. Seth and Callie remain completely thankful to Qiaolian, as they can never imagine living without the circus.

It is vital to them, like breathing.

Instead, they learn lessons wherever and whenever they can, borrowing books from Jemma's veritable library of a room. They transition from black and white to colour with ease, more so than anyone else. Tonight, they've finished their performances early and have the rest of the night to themselves, books open and scattered on the deep green rug.

"It's not that late," Seth says, checking his watch, though their definition of late would be very early to most. He is sprawled on his stomach across the floor, looking bored. "We could go see Jemma's performance or get some more cider." He tilts his head toward their half-filled tepid cups.

Callie hugs her knees to her chest, yawning. "You don't want to read? There isn't a cloud in the sky tonight." Seth has been in the habit of searching the stars, trying to find anything important to tell Jemma, and Callie has followed him around, picking up bits and pieces of information from visitors.

He shakes his head. "The last time, it was too confusing. Lots of red and something that sounded like a scream, a lady with no shadow. It felt like something was coming undone, unraveling and tangling at the same time, everything overlapping and it kind of hurt. I didn't like it very much."

Callie frowns, stretching out her legs before scooting closer to him. "Did you tell Jemma?"

"No, but I try to tell her only the things that make sense. This was too vague, but it'll get clearer with time. Oh, and we're going to have company, which was the only good part, but I don't know when. Maybe soon, maybe a long time from now." He shrugs, picking up a book about locks.

She makes an exasperated noise. "Does everything just roll off your back? When did we switch personalities?"

Seth turns to her, a grin on his face. "Reading the future kind of makes everything feel inevitable, so why not live in the moment? Come on, Callie, live a little."

It's her turn to frown. "It's hard to _live a little_ when you see parts of the past. I can't always control it," she pauses as he snorts and she shoves his shoulder, "and I know you can't either, but I pick up on a lot of things." It goes unspoken that their own past was hardly ideal until they joined the circus, and Seth sobers, his gaze returning to the book. They sit in silence for a few minutes before she speaks again. "Company, hmm? Maybe it'll be someone closer to our age. That would be nice."

Seth makes a small noise of agreement and she picks up her cup of cider, nudging his shoulder so he can see. "Can you warm this up?" He twists from his spot on the floor so he can take it, bringing it up to eye level as he stares until swirls of steam rise. "I can't seem to do that properly," she says, sighing as she stares at the cup. It floats from his hands to hers, as smoothly as though it was moving across the surface of a desk.

"Show off," Seth says, sticking his tongue out at her. "I can't levitate properly, so we're even." He turns to his book, flipping through pages and not really reading. "If we're not going to leave the tent, can you at least tell me a story? This book is too boring."

Callie obliges, telling a story of a witch and the man who tricked her into revealing her magic. He trapped her in a tree and used her secrets for himself, bragging around the world. But secrets lose power if they're shared, and he lost the ability to do magic, forgotten and aging. But the witch in the tree still had her magic and with the tree, she grew. She became part of its roots and branches and leaves and seeds, and when the seeds fell and grew into new trees, she became part of them, as well.

Seth frowns. "So being trapped isn't always a bad thing?"

Callie thinks about this for a moment before sprawling onto her stomach next to him. "I think it depends on a few things, like where you're trapped and if you're trapped with someone. Liking the place helps and so does liking the person you're trapped with." She nudges his shoulder with hers and he laughs.

They fall asleep unceremoniously that night, amidst a large pile of books and a puppy or three.

\-----

When Triplett receives an email asking to visit, he is astounded to see the illusionist standing in his doorway.

"Well, that makes so much more sense."

A friendship is struck.

\-----

 _To: Skye  
From: Qiaolian_  
Any accidents lately? Illness, even the slightest headache?

 _To: Qiaolian  
From: Skye_  
Um, no? That's super weird, come to think of it.

 _To: Skye  
From: Qiaolian_  
I don't think anyone has since the circus started. No one has died or been born.

 _To: Skye  
From: Qiaolian_  
Even though the way some of the performers carry on would suggest otherwise. We don't see what's happening because we're involved, but those outside can.

 _To: Qiaolian  
From: Skye_  
I don't know if the charm is working, if that's what you mean.

 _To: Skye  
From: Qiaolian_  
The cracks are beginning to show, but perhaps it's effective in controlling the inner workings. The smallest charms can be the most effective.

 _To: Qiaolian  
From: Skye_  
... Right. I'll try to remember that.

\-----

**NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK, USA**

The fifteenth anniversary is held in a large multiplex owned by Coulson. (They wonder why the fifth and tenth anniversaries were not celebrated in such a grandiose way, but Coulson claimed a need for extensive preparation.) After working in a black-and-white world, the amount of colour in the venue is shocking. There are decorative candles in every shade, hot pink and vermilion and goldenrod and kelly green. The champagne glasses are tinted royal purple and there are flowers everywhere, in shades that are natural and unimaginable. All attendees are dressed in vibrant colours across the rainbow: emerald and indigo and rose. Fitz and the rest of the staff are dressed in a murky midnight blue with bronze accents. Jemma wears a dress that she has manipulated to take on the colour of the outfits in her immediate vicinity, looking like she stepped out of the 50s if it weren't for the charm placed on the fabric.

Coulson gives a speech thanking them for fifteen wonderful years. He makes a remark about no one seems to age save Seth and Callie, and everyone chooses to ignore it.

When others ask Jemma to perform, she relents by making Qiaolian disappear from the center of the dance floor only to reappear just outside the room, holding a glass of champagne.

As Jemma quietly slips away, Fitz rests a hand on her shoulder. "May I try something?" he asks, and she turns around to nod at him. He reaches for her hand and she draws in an audible breath--the effect is similar to the last time, but it is more contained. She tries to avoid the shiver travelling down her spine. "I'm focusing my energy with yours." He grins and pulls on her hand, and she finds herself in a dark corner, face-to-face with him as her dress settles into navy shot through with copper. "I've missed you," he says, and she smiles as she reaches a hand to cup his cheek, still delighting in the sensation.

"Oh, Fitz, I've missed you, too," she replies, sighing quietly. She sees the face that she remembers from all of their recent encounters, younger and bashful with his light blue eyes, though she is certain he is keeping up appearances for everyone else. He leans against her hand, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment before he leans in to press his lips to hers.

Several people in the room behind them complain about the sudden increase in temperature. Seth frowns as he ducks out of the shadows to find Callie.

\-----

**A PHONE CALL**

"Can't you at least tell me how I'm doing?"

"You're doing fine."

"It's been fifteen years and you've barely said anything to me. I can't be myself around anyone except for Jemma. I pretend, and she shows the world her truth."

"But no one believes that what she's doing is real. They think she's the one pretending--the only difference is that she has an audience. That's not the point, though--you are on the same level as she is, but you don't need to flaunt it. Keep your distance from her."

" _Keep my distance?_ I'm in love with her, Beth."

A pause, then: "I'm sorry, then. It'll make this challenge much more difficult for you."

"It's been over a decade. When is this supposed to end?"

"When there's a victor, and the timing doesn't matter as much. Challenges might last several decades. You were a good student and an even better competitor—it will work itself out."

"We can't run this circus for several decades. That's just not remotely feasible! Look, none of this has been for you. It's all been for her, every change to the circus, every impossible feat and astounding sight. It's for her. I quit."

"That's not possible. You were bound to this challenge—to her—the moment you chose to come with me. One of you will lose and that's all that can be said."

\-----

**AUSTIN, TEXAS, USA**

Whenever he can manage it, Triplett finds himself at this circus and does his best to memorise the placement of each tent, mapping out the circus in his memory. It seems to grow bigger each time, and he wonders if it's even possible to visit every tent. There must be a sizable number of tents he has never discovered, even with his familiarity, and though he provides the most dedicated of fans with something as close to complete as he can manage, he thinks it's best to wander and lose yourself amongst the canvas.

Tonight, he finds himself in a section of tents that is void of electronic signs hanging on the doors and he frowns when he realises there are names over each door instead, so he tries to find his way back on the winding path. He frowns when he sees a tent he knows he has passed already and nearly runs into someone in the process.

" _Whoa_ ," the woman says, holding up her hands, her eyebrows shooting up in surprise. "You're definitely not supposed to be here."

He shrugs, looking down at the ground, where there is black powder instead of white in the rest of the circus. "I got a little turned around and now I'm trying to find my way out. Sorry," he says, looking back up before his eyebrows furrow in recognition. "You're the fortune teller, right?"

She grins, stepping back so she can reach out a hand to shake. "Reader of the cards, at your service," she says, introducing herself with a little bend at the waist before straightening. "Skye's fine, though."

He takes her hand with a smile. "You can call me Triplett."

She brightens, letting go of his hand and crossing her arms across her chest. "You're the one who writes articles about the circus! It's nice to have a face to put to the name." Skye makes a connection and understanding dawns on her face. "Waaaait, you know Simmons, don't you?" He nods, unable to hide the surprise on his face. "I've seen you around."

He laughs then. "Are you always back here?"

"Yeah. I can't exactly go wandering about when my tent is a hologram that I control remotely from back here. But hey, at least it means I can wear PJs from the waist down while everyone else is in crazy getups." She pauses, lost in thought and he's about to excuse himself when she speaks again. "Need some help getting out of here, Trip? It's confusing sometimes and I've been here a long time."

He grins. "I'd love some."

\----- 

**MOSCOW, RUSSIA**

Jemma manages to escape the circus after her performances are done for one evening and she finds herself at Fitz's hotel room.

He shows her the file with signatures and the binder filled with pages to which locks of everyone's hair are stuck. A safeguard, he calls it. She admits that she never considered a safeguard.

She stares at the inscription on the screen, created by overlapping symbols until it seems to be a sketch done in black ink, but she spies characters that she recognises. It burns into her memory and she frowns when she tries to remember why it looks so familiar.

\-----

Skye hides the small bundle in her pocket, reading the note three times before shredding it.

_For when you grow tired of being moved without your permission. For when tempering one last time._

\-----

**KANSAS CITY, MISSOURI, USA**

When Donnie first enters the circus, he is immediately in awe of the scope of it, despite his relatively young age. He wants to commit every detail of it to memory, etch it deep into his thoughts until he can't forget it, until he can recite it verbatim but he knows that it would pale in comparison to the real thing.

When he sees a performance by two people close to his age, a boy and a girl, he feels like he knows them from somewhere.

They finish their performance and approach him and he doesn't quite know what to do. "Donnie, right?" the boy says, and Donnie stares.

"How did you know my name?"

The girl smiles. "It's a little hard to explain, but he can kind of see the future. I see the past. My name is Callie and this is Seth."

When they show him around the circus, he feels oddly at peace. They give him a card that entitles him to unlimited admission ("for special guests," they say almost simultaneously) and he grins.

\-----

"Was he the company you saw, Seth?"

"I think so."

"What else did you see?"

"A flash of light that was so bright it made my head hurt for ages. I haven't figured it out yet."

"When you do, we should talk to Jemma."

\-----

 _To: Trip  
From: Skye_  
So, silly question: How much has Simmons told you about the circus?

 

 _To: Skye  
From: Trip_  
Only a little. It's been open for a long time, though, I've connected a few dots.

 _To: Skye  
From: Trip_  
Why?

 

 _To: Trip  
From: Skye_  
Getting antsy, that's all.


	9. a letter from the past

**BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS, USA**

At the end of the performance, one audience member remains in the illusionist's tent, staring at the exact spot from which she disappeared.

A few minutes later, Jemma appears in the seat in front of him. "You came," she exclaims, beaming. "I didn't think you'd make it."

"Boston isn't all that far from New York," Fitz replies, returning her smile.

"Are you here to show me your own illusions, Fitz?" she looks at him, hopeful and somewhat expectant. "You've been in every audience so far tonight," she adds, standing so she can lean over the edge of her small circular stage. "When I stand there," she starts, nodding her head toward the center, "I can see everyone."

He grins. "I suppose I could play the part of illusionist for now," he says, standing, too.

"Am I close enough for your illusion?"

He moves closer to her and rests a hand on her waist. "You are now." The tent and all objects within it turn to paper, covered in words, printed and handwritten. Jemma gasps as the tent folds in on itself, becoming a sea of ink with them standing on a ship folded from paper. She laughs delightedly, moving away from him and resting her hands on the railing made of books. "I thought you might like it."

She sighs, a smile on her face as she turns to face him. "I do. This is entirely not my field of expertise. I pull apart atoms and put them back together, working with and against my biology, but you can manipulate someone's mind. And you've got programs to do remote work? It's fascinating." She reads Shakespeare, Thoreau, and Atwood on the deck below her feet. "You shouldn't be thinking about how to make your opponent smile. I don't think that's in the rules."

"Beth never tells me anything."

She bites her lip. "Richard doesn't tell me much, either."

He takes a step toward her. "Tell me about what happened with him. I saw you in the library years ago, talking to shadows."

She looks up then, eyes wide. "Oh." She conjures up a glass mug, transparent so that the tea within is visible. "He wanted to disperse himself to occupy the world. Do you see the way this glass contains the liquid?" He nods, brow furrowed as he tries to work his way toward an acceptable explanation. "Now, if I poured this tea into a tub or the ocean, the tea is still there, yes? Richard found a way to remove his glass," she waves her hand and the mug disappears, leaving the tea floating.

Fitz nods, understanding dawning on him. "But he aimed for the ocean and not the tub."

"He can't pull his atoms back together," she confirms. "Instead, he haunts places with which he's familiar, or wherever I am. It's dreadful, though I've learned to keep him at a distance."

"Could you do it? Let yourself fall apart and pick up the pieces again?"

"I've mapped out the theory, but I don't have a need to attempt it. I'm rather fond of the physical world," she replies, stepping closer to him so she can press a kiss to his cheek. "I don't know what to think when I'm around you. I've spent my whole life trying to keep control of myself and my surroundings, learning everything there is to learn so that I could maintain order, but when I'm with you, it's far too tempting to just let go, stop holding onto everything. To let you keep me from breaking things rather than fretting about it myself."

Fitz holds her hand in his, avoiding her eyes and they stand like that for a few moments. She knows he could do it, stop her from tearing a room apart, and it frightens her almost as much as it delights her.

"Let's run away," he says, and she sighs, pulling away.

"We can't. Have you ever thought of leaving the circus behind? I mean seriously leaving? Just imagine abandoning the circus, the game, and starting over together, right now. Dropping everything—friends, the circus, our names and identities."

He does. He imagines leaving Coulson's employment, packing a suitcase and holding Jemma's hand as they walk away. But then he begins to imagine the details. Letting go of the bonfire, finding his boss a new assistant, buying matching rings. The smile leaves his face before he even realises he was smiling as a searing pain overtakes him, starting from the scar on his finger and racing toward his brain and down the rest of his body. The illusion crumbles away as Fitz's knees buckle and he falls to the ground.

Jemma rushes toward him, reaching for his hand. "Are you all right?" His eyes are shut and he doesn't say a word as the pain fades and she waits, squeezing his fingers, whispering words of comfort. "I cried when I tried," she says, as she feels his fingers loosen slightly from hers. "The night that you kissed me at the party. I thought that I could just leave with you without looking back. I tried staying behind when the circus left once, just to see if you were the cause—an extraordinarily stupid experiment, in hindsight—and it hurt just as much."

He gasps as he finally catches his breath. "You wanted to run away with me," he says, the corner of his mouth turning up. She just barely manages to avoid smacking him. "I can't let go of you, you know. Beth's told me many times to stay away from you but I just can't do it."

She bites her lip, looking away for a moment. "I can't stop thinking about you, either, but we can't just pretend that there isn't more to this game now. There are too many people involved and I'm far too connected to this circus to lose my concentration."

Fitz shifts so that he is sitting cross-legged and Jemma moves to sit beside him, hugging her knees to her chest. "Don't you have a power source?" She frowns. "Mine is the bonfire. It bolsters my connection to the circus, yes, but I can also borrow energy from it."

"I've always just controlled the circus. I don't know any other way, but learning another method would be preferable."

They stay sitting next to each other until dawn, telling stories to distract themselves. Her hand stays in his the entire time.

\-----

**PARIS, FRANCE**

Tonight is like any other night at the circus. A line of patrons waits outside before dawn and each tent gets discovered by new patrons and revisited by old ones. There is a hush that falls over the audiences of each large performance tent, lost in wonder and nearly in a state of shock so that they forget to clap, but they always do. The air smells of popcorn and caramel and chocolate. 

No one comes into the fortune teller's tent as the early hours of the morning approach. For that, Skye is grateful. She shuts off her camera for the hologram and retires to her desk backstage, dealing hand after hand of her own tarot cards. They show the same thing over and over again. The Priestess and the Magician. The challenge. A great deal of intensity that she cannot place.

She deals a hand for herself and reads her own frustration before she can finish and she stacks the cards back together. It has been seventeen years and she wants her life back. She wants the ability to grow old, to discover herself away from the circus. She wants to walk away now. She knows that Fitz has mentioned it before, but Skye wants to help the circus, wants to continue keeping both sides from destroying each other.

It doesn't seem to be working.

She takes out the knot of ribbon wrapped around a single tarot card that once belonged to the deck in front of her. The knot holds two locks of hair, one curly and the other fading from black to a light brown. Her frustration gets the best of her and she begins to rip at the braid. "The smallest charms can be the most effective," she says to herself, laughing bitterly, tucking the card back into her deck and tossing the ribbons.

Skye finds the letter that she received in the mail years ago. The note that came with it is faded with age, though she can still make out the words.

 _For Jemma when the time is right._ The name signed says Richard, but Skye knows how to recognise a false name when she sees one.

She leaves her tent with two packed bags and slides the letter underneath the door to the illusionist's suite.

\-----

_My darling Jemma,_

_I love you more than I can put into words and I'm so sorry that I couldn't be there to see you grow up. I couldn't give you a good enough explanation when we were still together, so I will try my best to put it here._

_I'm sure you've made the conclusion that Richard is the same man from the story I told you when you were a child. You may have already met Beth, of the same means. They are your ancestors and they have been on this earth for far longer than they appear. You are part of an elaborate game that was set in motion long before you were born, and I'm sorry that you couldn't escape it. I so wish that you could, but our mentors are too displaced from everything to realise the cost the game has on its competitors._

_Your father was my opponent. The competition binds two people together and more often than not, it means an irrevocable tie between two people that might never have met except in the given circumstances. You become obsessed with your rival, and often the thin line between knowing your opponent and loving them is broken a thousand times over._

_The only way to end the game is for one of you to die. Your father chose to end the competition, and I was left in the world alone—though not quite alone, as I was pregnant with you at the time, though I didn't know it yet. I didn't want you to enter the circle. I didn't want you to feel what I had felt, but you were partly the man that I had loved so intensely and so I raised you without telling you the exact nature of what you were destined to do._

_Our game was more intimate. A public display of magic was never an option, but when your father died, I performed as a necessity to keep him alive. I was Beth's student, so my illusions were difficult to perform for an audience—instead, I learned your father's methods. Playing tricks on an audience kept him alive somehow. I never showed you what I learned for many years because so many of my illusions were only created for him. He would have loved you so much._

_I know you don't believe in fate, love, but sometimes you must let go._

_With love,  
Eleanor_   
\-----

Jemma writes a brief email and though she doesn't know exactly where to reach the woman who gave her a ring that burned into her skin, she relies on instinct and sends it.

The woman in grey appears at the edge of the backstage area and Jemma crosses the ground in record time, blinking away tears. She speaks for a sliver of time and when she is finished, Beth nods. Jemma thanks her before disappearing on the spot.

The woman remains standing alone for some time.


	10. a confrontation

**NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK, USA**

There is a sharp knock on the door and Fitz nearly jumps out of his seat. When he answers it, Jemma comes nearly tumbling into the room, wringing her hands and systematically crushing something in her hands, turning a piece of paper into nothing but a crumpled ball. He moves away from the door and locks it behind him without a touch. "What's wrong?" he asks, perturbed by her distress. He rests a hand on her arm and she hands him the letter.

"Read it."

He takes the page from her, carefully smoothing it out. His eyes flit over the page, reading quickly. Once, twice, then a third time just for good measure. His jaw seems to have loosened itself from the rest of his skull as he looks back up at her, his stare incredulous. "Is this true?"

There are tears in her eyes as she nods. "I invited Beth and asked. She confirmed it. 'The victor is the one left standing after the other can no longer endure.' I don't know who had this letter, but it was put underneath my door tonight."

Fitz sighs, covering his eyes with a hand. "It was Skye. She came to me and asked to be removed from the safeguard. I told her years ago that she could leave, but I think the scope of it didn't hit her until recently." He looks at the ceiling for a few moments before looking back at her. "Was that the only reason you invited her?"

She shakes her head, her fingers still trembling. "I wanted a verdict. I wanted to find a way out of this bloody mess so that we could be together. I'm tired of being a pawn in a game played by two people who don't care for the consequences." She muffles a sob into the crook of her elbow before she looks up at the open door to a room that he had always kept locked.

He follows her gaze before taking her by the elbow, guiding her to the room. It smells of caramel and popcorn and cider and smoke. A hologram is projected within, a hundred tents or more, and when she reaches a hand up to tap the nearest tent, it shows her acrobats somersaulting in the air. She gasps and backs away, tapping another and another until she sees her own tent. "How?" she asks, unable to find words.

"It's old magic that I've modernised, the only kind I know. I work from the outside in, though I think you take the opposite approach." He pauses. "If Beth can't give you a verdict, maybe she'll give me one. She's seen enough of what we both can do and she thinks I'm a disappointment, I'm sure."

She sighs, turning away from the tents to face him. There's a curious look on her face but Fitz has no time to interpret it as she exits quickly. He follows. "I don't want to talk about the stupid game anymore," she says, whirling on him. He thinks it might be anger but the way she is shaking is not from rage. "I'm sick of trying to control everything when it doesn't want to be controlled. I'm sick of putting myself last just so nothing around us breaks. If it breaks, I won't be able to fix it and to hell with it." She closes the distance between them and places a hand on his neck, pulling him down so his lips meet hers.

They tug at each other's clothing. Fitz presses kisses to her shoulder, whispering apologies and confessions against her bare skin. Jemma's fingers trace haphazard patterns against his back.

Tremors rock the room, though nothing breaks despite the inherent fragility.

\-----

"I like to think about the first law of thermodynamics, that no energy in the universe is created and—"

"—none is destroyed."

"That means that every bit of energy inside us, every particle will go on to be a part of something else; maybe live as a dragonfish, a microbe, maybe burn in a supernova. And every part of us now was once a part of some other thing—a moon, a storm cloud, a mammoth."

"A monkey."

"A monkey. Thousands and thousands of other beautiful things that were just as terrified to die as we are. We gave them new life. A good one, I hope."

\-----

Jemma places her ring on the desk in place of the binder and transfers the file of signatures to a flash drive. She pulls her blazer back on as she turns to look at Fitz, sleeping soundly, and smiles at the idea that he trusts her enough that she could slow his heartbeat enough to help him fall asleep.

When she leaves, she vows to learn his systems so that the circus can be made more independent. Maybe she could escape for a while, be with him without harming the world they've so cautiously built around themselves.

"You've just made the game a great deal more difficult for yourself," a voice says from behind her, and she whips around, her hair flying into her face.

She pushes it away, furiously shaking her hand away. "It was made difficult from the day you and Beth decided to play out your damn game because you're both too stubborn to admit you're wrong. You involve lives without any regard for the consequences and leave the worry to the ones you choose to represent yourselves. You're so cowardly that you can't just do this yourselves, can you?" He remains silent. "I can see right through you, you know, pun hardly intended. You're both so willing to sacrifice people for your own pride—your own blood! God!—"

"—you were the clear winner until now. I don't know why you're making such a fuss. Forget about him and you can continue. Keep the circus alive."

"That's not a good enough reason!" She tries not to raise her voice to wake up the entire building. "You exercise too much control over the lives of others. If I were to win, I would be bound to the ghost of my opponent still, like my mother was before me. They told me she died from heart failure, but I know she took her own life. I know my father took his so that she could win, so that I could live." She lets out a laugh of disbelief. "Who is left when this is all done? Where are the survivors to go when everything fades? They can hardly be called winners."

His face remains impassive. "One is a performer in the microcosm we've created."

He fades away as Jemma draws the correct conclusions.

\-----

**BEIJING, CHINA**

Qiaolian is standing in the center of her own tent, her belongings pushed to the edges of the space as she finishes her tai chi. Jemma stands in the doorway until she is finished.

"Where is your scar?" Jemma asks, without any explanation. Qiaolian understands, turning around to show the tattoo splayed over her skin. There is a small red circle etched into the crescent moon at the nape of her neck. "Why did you never tell me that you were a part of a similar challenge?"

She regards Jemma for a moment. "It didn't seem necessary at the time. I was drawn to the circus because I wanted to see the game in a bigger venue. Mine was far smaller."

Jemma tries not to let her eyes water as they've threatened to do so many times already. "If this challenge ends, the circus could continue," she says, unsure if she is speaking the truth or hoping that it exists there in her words.

"There's a lot of work to be done if you want this circus to continue."

"Are you offering to help?"

"Only if and when it becomes necessary."


	11. an unwinding of threads

**KANSAS CITY, MISSOURI, USA**

The circus returns a little over a year later and Donnie attends as many nights as he can, quickly finding Seth and Callie.

When Seth shows up outside of the circus at Donnie's house on the eve of the circus' last night in town, looking rather out-of-place and asking him to come with the circus because the stars tell him it's needed, Donnie is rooted to the spot. His brain tries to make sense of the urgency in Seth's voice, panic rising to his throat when he considers picking up and leaving so suddenly.

Seth returns to the circus and Callie finds him almost immediately. "Did you tell him?"

He nods. "That damn vision with the blinding light? Donnie was there, I'm sure of it."

Callie sighs, frowning. "And you told Jemma?"

"Yes. But not about Donnie... I can't make sense of it."

She reaches for his hand, threading her fingers through his. "Then we have to wait until the stars tell you otherwise, or until someone can make sense of it. We can't force his hand."

\-----

One glass of wine rests on the table, though there are two occupants, one visible and one rather not.

"She would have won years ago if the circus didn't keep them apart."

Beth sighs. "The pattern continues as it always has, Richard. They're connected as soon as the rings are bound, if not before that. You're a fool if you believe they could've escaped the fate of all of the players before them."

The glass shakes slightly. "You grow too attached to your students."

She raises an eyebrow. "And you do not? Jemma is still blood." Richard says nothing. "How many of your students have ended the game themselves? The last one was, what, the sixth? Will Jemma be the seventh? There isn't a guarantee as to who will win. There never is. I chose him to contrast and complement, though I think I've chosen too well."

Richard vanishes and Beth finishes her wine.

\-----

 _To: Jemma  
From: Fitz_  
You've been avoiding me.

 _To: Jemma  
From: Fitz_  
And you stole my book.

 _To: Fitz  
From: Jemma_  
I'm trying to untie the circus from the challenge and from us. I'm sorry.

\-----

**A PHONE CALL**

"Untie the circus?"

"I have to make it independent, self-sufficient. I have to learn your methods, your system so I can do this properly. The circus means too much to too many people for it to disintegrate if we can't endure."

"... You intend to take yourself off of the board." There is no response. "No, Jemma. I can't let you do that."

"It's the only way to end the game, and I can't hold on to this. It gets increasingly difficult with every passing day. I have to let you win."

"We'll keep playing, then, because I don't want to win. Not if it means you won't be here." He pauses, trying not to cry though he is failing. "I love you."

There is a sniff from the other side. "I love you, too."

"Jemma—" There is a click at the other end of the line. "Jemma? Jemma!"

\-----

**PERTH, AUSTRALIA**

Jemma closes the laptop and removes the flash drive from it, placing it in her pocket along with her mobile, the text from Seth still open when she locks the screen. When the knock arrives, she calls out and Callie and Seth enter the room, closing the door behind them.

Callie looks worried enough for the both of them and Seth doesn't look worried enough, judging by the contents of his message. "So," Jemma starts, inclining her head toward two of the chairs in her suite. "This problem of yours—of ours," she corrects, and Seth nods once, "seems to be a very big one, indeed."

Seth nods again. "Our friend Donnie was supposed to come with us. It was supposed to happen, but it didn't, maybe because we left early."

Jemma raises an eyebrow, and Callie opens her mouth to speak. "Seth keeps having visions where they go very white and he gets headaches from them, and he said that Donnie was in the last one."

"What's the use of seeing the future if I can't do anything to stop it?" Seth mutters, looking down at his feet. Callie places a hand on his back in sympathy.

Jemma frowns, two mugs of tea floating toward them. "You can't stop anything, really, you can only be prepared. Expect the unexpected. Now, do you think we can try focusing your visions?" Seth nods, looking wary as Jemma takes a silver coin from her pocket and places it in her palm. The coin floats and begins to spin slowly. "You don't need the stars to read them, Seth. Just focus. Please." She looks at him expectantly and he stares back for a few moments before looking away.

He stares at the coin, determination etched into every feature, and Callie and Jemma both watch as his eyes lose focus, staring at something beyond the coin, beyond the circus entirely. A few moments later, his eyes roll back and Callie is there to steady him as he shakes his head clear of the fog. "The light is the bonfire. Well, it starts there and then engulfs the circus. You're there with someone else and it's _pouring_ , but then you're not entirely there. But you are. I don't know how to explain it. And Donnie is definitely there."

Jemma snatches the coin from mid-air and lets it fall into the pocket of her blazer again, chewing on her lip before speaking, choosing her words carefully. "Can you describe whoever I'm with?"

"A man with curly hair, maybe? I couldn't really see much else. It's going to happen soon."

If she guessed correctly, the man in question is in New York City and quite far from where the circus is travelling to, and she lets out a breath she hadn't realised she had been holding. "I'll try my best to protect the circus for the time being, okay? And two of the players seem to be missing from your equation, so it might be a while longer."

Seth nods, but Callie looks unconvinced. "Players... Jemma, I know you haven't always told us everything, but is the circus a game?" Jemma doesn't say anything but she doesn't look away, either. "Are we all players in this game?" She sighs, the sadness visible in her eyes. "Is it like chess?"

Jemma turns away for a moment, staring at the closed laptop. "No, it's not that simple." Anger rises to Callie's throat and she's about to speak when Jemma looks up at her and they both freeze. Callie is the first to look away, minutes later, while Seth stares on in confusion. "I haven't been completely honest with either of you or anyone else here, but it's for the good of the circus and everyone involved. I promise that I'm trying to balance everything, but we can only take things as they come because we'll never be fully prepared."

Seth and Callie leave the tent, shutting the door behind them. When Seth turns to Callie, she shakes her head, looking distant, more distant that she's ever been. "She let me read her. She's never done that before..." Callie turns back to Seth, a sad smile on her face. "There's a lot to explain and she'll tell us eventually. Until then, I think we need to take her at her word and let things unfold."

\-----

The programs project flame after flame and when the holograms begin burning white, Jemma finally allows herself to smile for the first time in days.

\-----

**NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK, USA**

He doesn't expect to see Skye sitting on the steps to his building.

"I'm sorry," she says without preamble.

Fitz sighs, rubbing at his temple. "It's not your fault. I said you could leave—"

"—and it's official," she interrupts, holding up the lock of hair cut out of a binder page. "Simmons deleted my signature, too, with my real name that you made me sign years ago."

"I'm sorry for getting you involved in this."

She shoves her hands into the pockets of her jacket. "The only reason for time is so that everything doesn't happen at once," she says, looking down at her feet. "Albert Einstein said that. You recited that to me when you were trying to teach me the binding charm. The most difficult thing to discern in the cards is time, did you know? Every reading I do has so many little things but trying to figure out when they'll happen is almost impossible. Look, I wanted to help you both, but it didn't seem to be working."

He leans against the railing, twisting Jemma's ring on his finger. "Skye, I can't—"

"I should've told you this when it happened, really, but I read cards for someone years ago.' She continues as though he hasn't interrupted her train of thought, finally looking up at him. "Everything was in his cards, and it reminded me so much of what Jemma's reading said that day in the cafe a few blocks down from here, the day you finally came to your senses and confronted her about being her opponent. It was the circus, you see, in his cards. He's supposed to save you and Jemma. You have a chance, Fitz, a chance to be with her and to have everything work in your favour, but you have to listen. The _timing_ isn't right." She pulls one hand out of her pocket and blows a cloud of black dust into Fitz's face.

When the dust clears, he is no longer standing there and Skye sighs. "God, I really hope I did that right."


	12. an explosion

**ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI, USA**

Fitz lands in a cloud of black dust and white powder with a loud _oomph_. He is entirely disoriented and quite possibly one giant walking bruise, but he stands up regardless of injury and though his mind is cloudy, he would recognise these tents anywhere.

"It's about time," a voice says and Fitz whirls around to see Qiaolian standing in front of the bonfire. The lines between his eyebrows deepen as he looks down at his clothing, the black dust fading and the white powder coming off easily with a brush of his hands. "Looks like Skye figured out that charm on her own."

He lifts a hand to cover his eyes, pressing against them until he sees stars. "What just happened?"

Qiaolian isn't smiling, but there is something in her expression that tells him she knows more than she is letting on. "Long story. Did you know that we have something in common?" Fitz frowns, trying to clear his head which seems to be foggy with black dust. "It'll take a few more minutes for that to completely fade. We're both former students of the same instructor."

He stares at her, just barely managing to keep his jaw from falling open, but the pieces begin to fall into place. Her cryptic messages, the tattoo inked across her skin with symbols that are programmed into his brain, the brief conversations Skye had mentioned. A knowing look thrown toward Jemma that he had accidentally seen. "You were Beth's student. You won one of their games?"

She shakes her head. "I _survived_ , a very long time ago. Survival is very different from winning. I devised a new method of learning just as you did, but as you've noticed, she isn't always pleased with the results." Qiaolian looks toward the bonfire, burning brightly in its cauldron.

The look on her face is pensive and Fitz feels as though he's interrupting a personal moment when she speaks. "Our mentors are quite old and quite out of touch with their emotions. They don't really remember what it is to be human, to live and breathe and love—they just see it as a big competition, throwing two people against each other for a victor. It's never that simple." She draws a breath and it sounds shaky, more so than Fitz thinks it has ever sounded. "Your opponent defines you, defines your life. You're bound to the challenge and to them, as well. They are your oxygen, essential for survival. Beth and Richard expect a victor to move on and continue living without oxygen, but you are missing a part of yourself, unable to breathe." Fitz looks away, too many thoughts running through his mind. "You love her?"

It is a question, but it sounds almost like a statement. "More than anything," he replies. After a life of deceit, he wants to tell the truth.

Qiaolian watches him, unblinking. "Simmons means to let you win, you know." He nods, suddenly feeling choked up. "I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. Have you ever heard the story of the witch in the tree?"

"There are several versions, but they all have the same pattern. She is trapped as a punishment for love." He turns to catch Qiaolian's eye, understanding dawning on him and he should be vehemently insisting there is another way, but he can't stand it anymore. "It will end the game, right?"

As Qiaolian nods, Fitz hears a sound behind them and turns around as the same time she does. Jemma stands there, dressed in the same clothes that she wore to the audition and for a moment he wonders if this is a sign, that he can remember her as he first met her, beautiful and intelligent and headstrong. She looks more beautiful than ever now, even with her eyes blazing. "Qiaolian, what's going on?"

"Go back inside. You don't want to see this." She steps back so she can address the pair of them. "You've been writing love letters to each other with your tents, but how long do you think it can go on? You hold this circus here," she says, looking at Jemma and places her hand over her own heart for a brief moment, "while the bonfire is a means for him to work. You are the reins of this circus, Simmons, and you would be the greater loss though you're too blinded by love, too selfish to see it. I have an outsider's perspective now."

Jemma shakes her head, tears in her eyes, seemingly rooted to the ground. Fitz can't look away from her. "I need more time," she says, her voice breaking on the last word.

Qiaolian gives her a sad smile. "Time is something none of us can control. I gave you plenty of it to figure out how to disconnect the circus from yourself."

Fitz swallows hard, breaking his eyes from Jemma and turning to Qiaolian. "Do it. I would rather be trapped for eternity than live without her." Qiaolian turns toward the bonfire and interlocks her fingers behind her back.

"No!" Jemma screams, anguish riddling her voice. She is running and crashes into him, her arms wrapped around his waist and it's too late for him to push her away, so instead he pulls her close to him, one hand cradling her head as he tries to whisper _I'm sorry_ over and over into her hair, but pain starts ripping through him and he is left breathless because of it. "Trust me," she whispers, and it hurts, it hurts so much--

\-----

There is too much to control, she thinks, and she wants to scream but she focuses on the theory, the application of what she's studied herself, the memories she has of time spent with him, talking and sighing and happy, truly. They break apart as one and she realises that this is easy. This doesn't hurt anymore, and maybe she should just let go, let her atoms dissolve into chaos, let herself become something else and breathe her life into something new. But instead, she focuses on pulling back together, praying that her atoms won't lie to her, won't escape as she attempts this.

 _Stop_ , she thinks, as a clock chimes midnight somewhere and everything slows. She thinks maybe this is what approaching absolute zero would be like, but the thought is fleeting.

This is so much more difficult than healing herself, she thinks, but she focuses on one place. One place that is so familiar to her now that it comes to mind immediately. It is agonising and takes what feels like ages.

She stands center stage in her tent.

\-----

One moment Fitzsimmons was here, the next, gone. Qiaolian resists the blinding light easily enough, though she sees them disappear into something like smoke and shadow, a glint of his watch, the curl of her hair, before disappearing entirely as the light engulfs the circus.

She waits by the bonfire, or what remains of it. The hologram no longer appears to be working.

\-----

He only feels pain as he clutches onto her. The explosion lasts much longer, blinding white and hot enough to melt skin, but eons pass and there is something different about it, but that is not the first thing he notices.

She is not here. There is nothing. His world is black and white and black and white over and over again, refusing to settle.

\-----

She thinks of a tent and is there, though she doesn't move. Is she manipulating the circus now or is she manipulating herself? Everything takes on a strangely transparent quality and she cannot seem to grasp anything. Her hand passes through the animals of the Carousel, and she leaves no footprints behind in the snow of the Labyrinth.

She feels him surround her but she can't find him, and her distress grows until her fingers begin to shake.

\-----

Everything is cool to the touch and for a split second, he thinks that light means energy, energy means heat and it shouldn't be like this until he realises where he is. He gasps, his lungs filling with air as he looks around at the metal trees, dimly gleaming. He frowns, trying to reconcile their translucency with what had happened when he feels, rather than sees, her behind him.

"Jemma."

\-----

Jemma gives a disbelieving laugh as she rushes toward him. "Oh, Fitz, I thought—I thought I'd lost you. I couldn't let you do it. I couldn't let you go and then I couldn't find you—" she draws a breath, pressing shaky kisses to his face. He closes his eyes and smiles, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close.

"I'm here," he whispers into her hair before pulling back. "How did you do it?"

"I didn't think I could, to be honest. I had to bring you with me but I didn't think it would work—the circus is our touchstone, you see, and the bonfire was the catalyst."

He looks around at the forest and notices the rust beginning to cover the trees. There is a weight on him that wasn't there before, an emptiness that had once been the bonfire. He feels the circus more strongly than ever, and there is something wrong, something that feels like decay. There is only one light that remains and it is Jemma, but she looks tired and the light flickers. "The bonfire went out. Are you holding it all together?"

She nods. She is Atlas, carrying the weight of the world, and there are pieces of it already fading. She can't pull it back together again if something happens—she is certain of that, at least. "I can't let go of it. It will collapse and then who knows what will happen to us? No, we need someone to help, a caretaker."

He holds her to him, letting her shiver against him.

\-----

When Donnie finds his way to the circus, he immediately feels something is wrong. The surroundings are no longer immaculate, the tents looking strangely forlorn, all flickering lights gone out. He passes the bonfire, where a woman with dark hair stands. "You're late. But then again, time is something we cannot control." He opens his mouth to speak, bewildered. "You can ask questions later, Donnie. This is a matter of urgency."

She nods toward the tent closest to them and he walks toward it, feeling as though he might be dreaming.

A ghost of a man sighs and Donnie's eyes widen. "I wish you weren't so young."

"Are you a ghost?" Donnie blurts out. "You look like one."

The man smiles then. "You look like one to me, too. Which one of our perspectives tells the truth, I wonder?" He reverts to looking far too serious for his appearance. "My name is Fitz, Donnie, and I'm about to tell you something quite unbelievable, if you're willing to listen." Donnie nods, wondering how everyone in this circus seems to know his name before they meet him.

The words spilling from the man's mouth seem like some fantastic story, but Donnie hears the truth in it even though it baffles him. He follows Fitz into the tent where the Tree of Wishes stands and there is a woman who Donnie recognises as the illusionist, though she appears to be a ghost, too. "Hi, Donnie," she says softly, and though she stands quite far away, her voice echoes around him, sounding like she is standing beside him. Fitz appears at her side. "I don't believe we've been properly introduced. I'm Jemma."

He gives a tentative smile. "Nice to meet you. Did—did you know I would be here?"

"Seth mentioned a series of events in which you were present, so I thought you might show up eventually." She pauses, looking very sad. "I have something to ask of you, and it's very important, but you have the choice to walk away. Neither of us was given that. We need you to take over the circus."

Donnie gapes and loses his ability to speak for a few seconds. "Why me? I'm not special."

"Maybe not, but you're in the right place at the right time, and that’s enough. None of us can control our timing, it seems," Fitz replies, right as Jemma's knees give out slightly. He catches her as the candles on the tree flicker before some disappear entirely. "You can do it, Jemma. Just hold on a little longer."

She gives him a small smile and Donnie feels like he is intruding so he looks away, not turning back until Fitz clears his throat. "I'll do it," he says, looking up at them, his choice made a long time ago. "I'll take over the circus."

Jemma turns to him and nods. "We should be able to help you when you need it, and Seth and Callie are well-equipped to assist you, too. You can learn how to manipulate the world as we have with some study. First, you need to start the bonfire again—that helps power the circus—and the rest of it you will carry with you." He finds that doesn't frighten him as much as it should.

Fitz frowns. "Words are fleeting. I think we should make this official." He slides a ring from his hand and reaches for Donnie's outstretched one. The ring passes through the hologram of a flame. "I made a wish once on this tree. I wished for her."

When the ring burns into his skin, Donnie doesn't shout or even wince. When it is over, he turns to them. "What do you need me to do now?"

\-----

The flash drive holds a program that Donnie deciphers as best he can on the laptop he finds in Jemma's tent. He adds what they've told him, typing in code that he doesn't fully understand, but the idea behind it burns brightly in his mind. He begins writing words, too: his first memories of the circus, how he first met Seth and Callie, focus and concentration with Jemma's words intertwined.

He makes a wish. _I choose this. I want this. I need this._ He wishes harder than he has ever done before, wishes for himself and Jemma and Fitz and the patrons of the circus, for Seth and Callie, for the fortune teller named Skye and the people involved with the circus that he never met. He sprints back to the bonfire, flash drive in hand, wishing all the while as he plugs it in.

_I wish to take over the Circus._

Everything freezes and he feels a pair of hands on his shoulders though no one is behind him, and when the hologram flickers white, flames reaching for the sky, he is knocked back, the air gone from his lungs. The lights flicker on one by one.

The circus comes back to life.

\-----

Fitz waits at the Tree of Wishes, watching as the electric flames reignite. Jemma appears beside him. "I think it worked," he teases, waving a hand at the tree.

She laughs and the sound echoes all around them. "I think it did," she replies, before tilting her head up to kiss him. "Are you content to haunt this circus for the rest of our existence?" she asks against his mouth.

He smiles and pulls back just far enough to rest his forehead against hers. "As long as you're here beside me."

"The whole damn time," she replies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Oce ([jsimmonss](http://jsimmonss.tumblr.com/)), my wonderful beta, for reading this and putting up with a million and a half changes and giving me so many good suggestions to help improve my first draft! There are a few potential one-shots that might become attached to this universe, as well as a companion fic following Seth, Donnie, and Callie.


End file.
